My Imaginary Me Doesn’t Live Here Any More

I have spent an entire unproductive morning combing the pages of estate agents and letting agents for affordable little cottages or flats with pretty vistas in Cornwall and no such thing exists. [Although letting–renting for you Yanks–is much more approachable than buying.]

Why am I doing this?

I. Don’t. Know!

And since I am not going to move to Cornwall or even spend an extended period there, meaning, I don’t have to actually be able to afford anything I see, thus could find a gorgeous manor with sea vistas and hopping distance from the coastal path, you’d think this would be a pleasant morning’s diversion.

But no, oh no, not for me.

I have to complicate things by looking for something I could almost maybe afford so that it tantalizes with the, “You know, you really could do this…” siren song.

I may have to write a book about a woman who lives my imaginary life in Cornwall.

Which leaves me wondering, do I plot sex or murder?

Will this be romance or thriller?

I do not have time for this book that I am not going to write just so I can live in an imaginary flat with a gorgeous sea view in Cornwall which I cannot afford which means I will probably have a view of the garden [if I am lucky] or step straight out the door into the street [if I choose a place in the village so I’m walking distance to pub, chippie and shopping].

[bookmarking all pages so can return to daydreaming research work this afternoon]

Where does your imaginary you live?


Patricia Burroughs

“Before you can inspire with emotion, you must be swamped with it yourself.
Before you can move their tears, your own must flow.
To convince them, you must yourself believe.”
~Winston Churchill


About Patricia Burroughs

Patricia Burroughs [aka Pooks, and yes, people really call her Pooks] is a fifth-generation Texan who loves books, football, dogs, movies, England, and traveling in her [email protected] camping trailer. She lives in Dallas, Texas with her high school sweetheart and believes in happily ever after, if you understand that it takes work, compromise, and sometimes just being too stubborn to quit. Visit her bookshelf at the BVC Ebookstore.


My Imaginary Me Doesn’t Live Here Any More — 9 Comments

  1. Every time I go on a vacation, I spend time walking around thinking about what it might be like to live in that place, regardless of whether I have any intention of ever moving there. Sometimes I even go online and check places out, and — like you — I only look at places I could maybe afford. Even my imaginary life needs to be within my budget!

  2. My imaginary me lives 1) in my old apartment on 95th Street in Manhattan, or 2) in London, in a two bedroom flat in Hampstead Heath with easy access to the Underground. My dreams are not of castles or gilded thrones, but of a rather quotidian city life. I likely couldn’t afford either (we sold the old NYC apartment when we moved west, and gods know what it would cost now). Still, my heart thrums to the sound of the subway.*

    *I do realize this is not everyone’s cup of vodka.

  3. Heh. My actual not-at-all-imaginary mother actually does live in a little cottage in Cornwall. No sea view, but it’s a converted barn on farmland, with views of hills and horses. You’d probably like it, quite…

    (My actual imaginary self lives in a house in Newcastle and a house in California and… oh, wait. That’s not imaginary either. But I do imagine having pieds-a-terre in cities all over: Paris and Berlin and Taipei and Montreal…)

  4. My imaginary me lives in a stone house in a garden-filled hollowed in the woods — and manned by brownies. (Why stint?)

  5. There is NOTHING more corrupting that the availability of real estate listings on the internet. Hours and hours of useful time can be wasted in this way!
    My imaginary self is a city girl, with a flat downtown in San Francisco or Manhattan or London.

  6. My imaginary me lives on a ranch in the Santa Cruz Mountains big enough for me to play with my Napoleonic 9-pounder without excessively disturbing the neighbors.

    • (My reread of the O’Brian books has just reached the end of The Thirteen-Gun Salute. With great regret, Aubrey has just sent his treasured brass nine-pounders over the side, in an attempt to lighten ship…)

  7. Dave, did you know somebody is already doing that in the south Bay area? Only, instead of powder weapons, the guy collects tanks. He has a big enough spread to lay out his toys and drive them around. All the ROTC battallions in the region make yearly pilgrimages there, to play.

    • Thank you, Brenda. As the former owner of a Very Napoleonic Terrier, thought he was talking about a small dog and couldn’t figure out what on earth they were doing to make that much noise.