Living In A Plague Village In The Early 21st Century

I started following Tom Cox on Twitter to see what his sad cat The Bear was up to. The Bear has since died (many tears were shed) and Tom has moved on, literally, to a plague village

All my life I have been prone, in a mild way, to headstrong, impulsive behaviour. I stand by this strand of my personality, since it has often worked out pretty well for me, and also because I’m a big fan of mistakes and view a life without them as being terrifyingly dull. One of the problems of getting older, though, is that Experience happens and, no matter how much of a headstrong, impulsive person you remain, it will insidiously begin to fuck that side of you over: in the back of your head where resides the chorus of voices that disapprove of your headstrong impulsive behaviour - individual and real, or nebulous and societal - this choir of sensibleness will be joined by a new voice, which you might recognise with some dismay as your own. I was feeling a bit frustrated about this towards the end of last year and felt it was far too long since I’d made a major impulsive and headstrong decision that could be widely criticised by others, so in the second week of December, in bitterly cold weather, I packed up my life, left my beloved house in a relatively gentle part of Devon, and moved to half of a remote haunted farmhouse on top of an almost mountain in a plague village in the north of England.

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