Monday August 11th 2025
My brain is a great big squished-up mess of information about yields, ciders, grains, cow poo (very important, apparently). Am full of hope and excitement.
Not because of the cow poo. (Did I need to write that?) It’s because now that I’m here, in this wonderful wild place, actually starting a family my way seems possible.
Sure, it’s not exactly the way I used to dream it would happen, and, yes, being here on the island will probably make the fertility treatment appointments (they’re in Guernsey) a little bit more of a faff…
but Brianna was right: the opportunity was so perfect, and it just had to be here.
It had to be different. After denying what I want for so long, this feels so right.
And oh, I want it. But the feeling’s different now that I’ve made the decision to do it alone.
The panic has gone. I always said I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of the life I want, but I wasn’t being honest with myself about what that life was, that was the problem—and now I am.
No more secretly, quietly longing for something I don’t have.
I’m going out and getting it. By myself, for myself.
Won’t take any steps now until the job’s confirmed—probably sensible.
Don’t fancy managing the fertility drug injections while squashed into a one-bed with someone else, for starters.
Plus I want a support network in place before my baby comes along, and right now my new life involves—kind of by definition—absolutely zero people I know.
But it’s obvious everyone looks out for each other here, just like I hoped.
Saw someone fixing up a neighbor’s cart this morning, and Rog has already offered to help us brighten up the garden at the stables (“This looks shit,” he said, when he dropped a few imported groceries around for us, “you want some bedding plants?”).
There’s even a sign Sellotaped to the wall in the farm shop that reads, “We help each other out here on the Isle of Ormer. If you need a hand, but you’re not sure who to ask, call the Ormer Neighborhood Deputy, who will put you in touch with a friendly face. ”
A friendly face! Back home you’d have to really look like you were going to buy something if you wanted to get one of those from anyone.
Life’s simpler here, and it’s beautiful—so much better than it looks online.
The towering cliffs, the little moon-shaped sandy bays, the island tracks dappled with tortoiseshell light under the trees…
It feels as though there’s more light and shade here—more color.
It would be the most magical place to raise a child.
However. Raising a child on my own will mean I really need a steady income and somewhere to live, ideally minus large grumpy coworker in walk-in wardrobe.
Which means working with Jones to a) turn Bramblebay Farm Shop into sufficiently profitable business to sustain two managers and b) figure out how to get the stables to myself ASAP.
Having accommodation as part of the job—with space for a nursery—was a huge part of the appeal, and cannot raise baby with alternative, burlier Charlie Jones occupying (considerably more than) half the space.
(He’s a natural manspreader. Even his towels manspread across the bathroom floor.)
Back soon—off to meet our staff!
The permanent* staff.
*Apparently “loads of other people help out now and then.” Presumably we pay these people, but nobody has mentioned how this works, or if any records are kept. Note: legalities of this??
Rog: Yes, Rog the tractor driver, postal worker, island gardener. Seems that on the Isle of Ormer, one does not simply do one job. One either does half a job (see: Charlie Joneses) or all the jobs (see: Rog, and everyone else). Apparently he helps out with cleaning and DIY at the shop.
Galoshes: Think her name is actually Sally, but nobody would confirm this. Pink hair, pink glasses, lots of pink. Aged about sixty-five. Works as full-time shop assistant, very morose, said “But that’s not how we do things” three times in initial meeting. Am flagging as potential pain in the arse.
Red: Friendly tour guide from the harbor.
Early twenties, at a guess? Part-time shop assistant—helps out at “busy times,” which nobody could define and apparently cannot be planned for.
Strikes me as someone who has been through tough times but nonetheless remains resolute in her opinion that humans are great. Current fave.
Toby: Nineteen years old. Full-time shop assistant, sweet, mumbly, with prawn-like posture.
Almost invisible behind hair carefully gelled to cover most of his face.
It’s a lovely face and I felt an immediate maternal desire to tell him so, but repressed it—inappropriate.
Need to have a baby soon or am at risk of aggressively mothering anyone under the age of twenty.
Not a bad bunch. But vibes were weird. Toby not looking at anybody, Galoshes glaring at me a lot, Rog spending half the meeting taking calls about gardening jobs, Jones and I tussling to take charge of the conversation…
It did not scream “well-honed team.” Am putting staff issues top of the farm shop to-do list. Well, maybe not top.
Top is probably “Create sign for farm shop so people actually know it’s there.
” But then it’s figuring out the issues between all the team members.
Now that I’m thinking about it, there is a lot to put on the farm shop to-do list. Had hoped this job would be idyllic escape, but am starting to feel a bit stressed.
What if I can’t do it? What if I get it all wrong, and make the place even worse, and then I lose my job and, worse, everyone here thinks I’m the dickhead who turned up and ruined everything?
I won’t get a second fresh start. Really can’t screw this up.
Just a reminder to self: no sad thoughts, no sad thoughts, no sad thoughts. Blank slate! New life! Starting over, la la la! I shall expand and grow like the apples in the orchard. Have started a Pinterest board for the farm shop and it’s filled with gorgeous autumnal delight. This will cheer me up.
All right, had a little cry. That’s fine, that’s allowed. Can’t just repress feelings through sheer force of will—that way lies traumatizing your future children with your emotional inadequacy. Very boomer. Must avoid.
Oh, God, this is all quite hard, isn’t it?
Jones is back now—went to speak to the owners of a boujee rental in Little Ormer (other end of the island) who were away over the weekend, but even they don’t have any availability until October, so it seems the accommodation problem remains.
We’re about to sit down at the kitchen table for summit on this topic.
Would very much like this place to myself, but imagine he feels the same way.
Whatever the reason for this bizarre mix-up, there’s only one new dream life available, and we’re both trying to fit into it. Things are getting bloody cramped.
Both played it very “I’m a mature, sensible adult” for the summit.
Cordially sat down at table with cups of chamomile tea.
(New me is a chamomile tea person. Jones grimaced with every single sip, so not sure he’s on board.
It was a bit dusty. Maybe more local honey next time, though not sure how much more would actually dissolve in there.)
Discussed the fact that sleeping arrangements from last few nights are not ideal. We have agreed to work together, but I do not want to live with this man, and he does not want to live with me.
“Yeah, no, absolutely not,” he said.
There was a real tone to it.
“Though obviously I’m an excellent housemate,” I said.
He snorted.
“At least I don’t leave towels on the bathroom floor,” I said.
“No, you just don’t turn on the exhaust fan, or put anything in the dishwasher.”
Confrontational, unfriendly silence.
Tried again.
“Look, I don’t want a housemate. I want to settle down.”
Felt him looking at me curiously over his mug at that, so I got up to put things in the dishwasher (loudly and pointedly).
“On your own?”
“Sorry?” I said, without turning.
“It’s just, normally when people say they want to settle down, they want to settle down together. With someone.”
“Yes, well, there is no someone anymore. I’ll be settling down on my own.”
“Ah,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Yeah. I think that’s what I’ll end up doing, too.”
Bristled slightly at this—wasn’t saying I have “ended up” alone.
This is what I’ve chosen. Also, no way this man will end up alone.
He’s a bit messed up and complicated, undoubtedly, but what’s a murky past and a bit of alcoholism when you’re an attractive man in your thirties? He’d clean up on the apps.
Anyway. His relationship status is not my business. Whatever his deal is, he needs to be dealing with it out of my walk-in wardrobe.
“But the job had accommodation included,” he said. “Ultimately, the stables…This place is part of the deal. For me.”
“Or me.”
Unmistakable rise in tension.
“Not you. But yeah.”
“It could be me.”
“It’s not you. You know it’s not you.”
“I am actually very confident the job wasn’t offered to you,” I countered, slamming a bowl into the top rack of the dishwasher, “but let’s not get into this, shall we? We’ve agreed to share.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little darkly for my liking.
On my glare, he added, “You can’t be that confident the job isn’t mine, or you’d have made a play to have it all to yourself. But you didn’t. You agreed to share.”
“I’m not a risk-taker,” I said. Is that strictly true? Not sure, actually. “And there was a lot at stake. So I compromised. Besides, you did the same.”
“Like you say,” he said steadily, “there was a lot at stake. It’s a prepackaged ready-made new life, isn’t it? And somewhere so epic.” He waved a hand out at the island glimmering beyond the kitchen windows.