Life Litter Pod

About Life Litter Pod

Life Litter is about things left behind — and how they connect. Essays read aloud by the author. www.lifelitter.org (https://www.lifelitter.org?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Jill

Category

arts · society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

Yes

First episode

6 Mar 2023

Latest episode

2 Jun 2025

Latest episodes

42 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   2 Jun 2025

   This is how you turn 40

   The host JOEL explores turning forty with adventures including climbing, swimming, and visiting gardens, reflecting on aging and the allure of new experiences.

2. 

   14 May 2025

   The Hamptons of England

   A friend sent me a Guardian article (https://www.theguardian.com/business/2025/may/10/were-in-the-hamptons-of-england-trump-sends-wealthy-americans-fleeing-for-the-cotswolds) a few days ago about how loads of Americans—specifically: young, wealthy, tech-y Americans—are moving to the Cotswolds to escape Trump. The rationale is it offers the chance to live in the quaint English countryside where there is no risk of water shortages, wildfires or demented, roving bands of preppers (at least in the short term). I showed this to Joel and, with a lofty air, suggested that my newsletter probably helped to popularise the Cotswolds for that particular demographic. “Come on babe. That’s exactly the slice of America that’s on Substack. I’ve definitely played a role here.” He suggested gently that I may have overestimated my reach and significance. Scoffing (I never do this), I allowed that the smash TV adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s Cotswolds epic Rivals, and its heaving bucolic shagging on tennis courts and al fresco under shady oaks by trickling burns, may have had something to do with it. But, doubling down on my role as trendsetter, I pointed out that I am in fact an American in the Cotswolds, coming up on four years now. Ahead of the curve, what? So, for my American readers, as a fellow American, if you’re planning to relocate to middle England, allow me to share with you some nuggets of wisdom that I have gleaned from my time on these blessed shores. * First, it’s quite rainy, so you’ll need to choose a house. An idyllic 17th century stone cottage with a pitched roof of bundled thatch will naturally be your first choice. But allow me to offer you a word of caution. While these cottages are a dream to look at, you would not enjoy living in one. Trust me on that. These cottages were built back when people fetched water from the river and washed their clothes twice a year. They are totally impractical to live in. The kind of thatched, stone cottage that looks super cute dappled with peachy summer sunlight and draped in wisteria was not built to the requirements of 21st century family life—certainly not to the requirements of 21st century American families with their rec rooms and laundry chutes and triple garages—nor to the sizes of 21st century humans (again: certainly not 21st century American humans). Don’t believe me? Tiny, blocked-up windows (a hangover, I am told, from the strange, lost “Window Tax” (https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/transformingsociety/towncountry/towns/tyne-and-wear-case-study/about-the-group/housing/window-tax/) period of English history); staircases that can be ascended only in full crouch; living rooms too small to accommodate more than an armchair; kitchens and bathrooms without natural light. Plus, silverfish and woodlice in the walls. When it floods, the waters will seep up and through the stone floors like the hell-slime of Golgotha in that scene in (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlqjtqkoRdM)Dogma (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlqjtqkoRdM) with the shit-demon (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlqjtqkoRdM). And if you think, no worries, I can fix all that: no, you can’t. Now would be the time to Google what “Grade II listing” and “conservation area” mean. Planning to alter, extend or replace that thatch or those ancient single-pane sash windows? Think again buddy. But, you know, the wisteria sure looks dreamy. * As for house specifications, a boot room is probably the most important thing you can own. More important than kitchen and bathroom combined. If you don’t have one, consider selling a child to acquire one. This is a room just for boots, which get muddy and so need a room of their own in which to sit and think about what they have done. It is impossible to overstate the importance of the boot room. There are, I understand, entire costumiers and decorators who make a living just from the outfitting of boot rooms. They will even, for a small surcharge, pre-muddy your boots to spare you the effort. In any case, you cannot hope to make friends and advance in Cotswolds life without a boot room so please don’t even think about it. * Likewise, you will certainly need a room with lots of natural light falling through checked curtains, the sole purpose of which is to prepare your wildflower cuttings, arrange stems and hang loosely-bound bouquets of lavender, tied with sedge grass. Don’t have one? See number 2 above. * Now, this one is optional but, if you’re not a monster, you will probably also want a lake, delicately reeded. This is so you can dive at a moment’s notice when you return sweat-stained from the commute to London, after handing over the reins of your horse to a squire who will helpfully materialise when required in the woods at the edge of your manor. What’s that? No squire? See number 2. * Now you’ve found a house, in a postcard-perfect village, the first thing you’ll notice is that there is no Uber Eats. Please adjust your food expectations accordingly. You will also find that restaurant options are somewhat constrained. There is no Sichuan, Caribbean or Vietnamese food anywhere west of London and, as for Mexican, you will need to learn to live with crushing disappointment. After vast amounts of fieldwork, I’m pleased to report there is a solid curry place in Chipping Norton. But that’s it. You will want to plan your meals in London many weeks in advance for ramen, conveyor belt sushi and all the other things totally unattainable in the ‘wolds. * Country pubs will stop serving food *much* earlier than you expect. Hours, if not days earlier. No, I can’t tell you when. That is something you must learn for yourself. * You can, if you are sufficiently charismatic and impressive and popular, join a fancy members’ club to get access to their private members-only restaurants. Note that, if you choose to do so, you must be prepared for all your friends to call you a dickhead when they spot the club app on your phone. * Note also that your phone probably has no cell service. Ever. * Basically, my advice? Learn to cook. * Once you’ve learned to cook, you will also need things to cook. This is where that wooded manor comes into play, so you can live out all your wet-dream grow-your-own millennial fantasies. Luckily, investing in a greenhouse and the right pair of secaturs from Daylesford will transform you instantly into a proficient gardener. A total lack of know-how need not hold you back. A word of warning: make sure that your greenhouse is Crittall-style aluminium in a pleasingly aesthetic colour, say: sage-green or rust-red. Nothing trashier than a plain white uPVC greenhouse. * If grow-your-own is too successful and you have to stop because you’ve increased the GDP of the UK so much that it isn’t fair on the other producing nations, you will need some wheels to navigate all those adorable country roads to a grocery store. One can’t ride one’s horse and muddy boots everywhere. Living in the Cotswolds is mostly driving to other places, as it’s quite far from anything in British terms—but, for you? The distances are positively diminutive by American standards. 50 miles round trip to Costco? Nothing. * So choose a vehicle. Be warned thought that, if you want to blend in and burnish your credentials, it will need to be a battered Land Rover at least thirty years old, equipped with a snorkel and flecked with mud from driving it around your copious acreage. Anything else is frankly embarrassing. * When you are driving, you’ll want to note that the roads, which wind round frequent bends and hills, are approximately the width of a single car and traffic flows at 60 mph in both directions. You’ll also want to look out for bicyclists, walkers and horses—all of which use the motor vehicle roads despite miles of open countryside in every direction—and those fun old arched bridges that bear signs warning that large oncoming vehicles may have to pass under the bridge in the middle of the road. In other words, you may come face to face with an 18-wheeler under this bridge, so perhaps think about tapping that brake. Oh, and did I mention we drive on the left? You’ll want to remember that. * A few other miscellaneous survival tips. In the right season, you can get free apples all over the place. No, I won’t tell you where. Well, maybe I will, in a sidebar, for a founders’ subscription. * Eggs too, in roadside boxes, if you leave a couple quid. * Farmers will get very cross if you walk across their fields. They will definitely shout at you and may also shoot at you, pretending to think you are a pheasant. Don’t risk it. * You’re all set. Having now managed to house, feed and convey yourself about in the sunshine for a glorious week of perfect summer, the clouds will reconvene for approximately 51 weeks of rain. At this point, you will retire to your panelled library, with a snifter of malt whiskey, to gaze contentedly on vast swathes of rain-dappled woodland, as your sanity slips steadily into the rearview. * Congratulations! You’ve just made it through your first year. Just seven or eight more generations, and you may well be on your way to passing for a local. Of course, unless you can trace your lineage back to pre-Roman conquest, I daresay you’ll never be truly accepted, but still. It’s a small price to pay to live in the Hamptons of England. * Oh, and don’t forget to stockpile instant noodles for when all those roads—adorable single lane affairs—and bridges—adorable hump-backed arches—flood and the nearest Tesco is in Cheltenham. Good luck! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.lifelitter.org/subscribe (https://www.lifelitter.org/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2)

3. 

   1 May 2025

   Dublin

   This morning I nearly spilled a full cup of coffee on my laptop. Reflexes and dexterity aren’t what they once were. Forty looms large. Joel (https://www.lifelitter.org/p/for-joel) took delivery of replacement razors for his shaving implement. After years of being, shall we say, pogonotrophically challenged, he now needs to shave every day. Puberty finally harpooned him at the ripe old age of 32. I told him if he starts growing chest hair, it’s game over, so watch this space. Anyway, back to the razors. I was at my desk, AirPods in, and sensed a disturbance in the hallway. Joel was flapping around looking for something. I popped out my AirPods. “What’s up?” “Can’t find my ID.” I wandered out of the office. A delivery man stood at our front door, much more on top of the situation than I was. He spoke briskly, a man who has places to go and people to see. “Oh good, mum’s home. What year were you born?” I stood very still, failing to grasp what was happening. Joel looked uncomfortable but stayed nice and quiet so he wouldn’t have to continue the hunt for his ID. The delivery man looked expectantly at me, thumbing his tablet, all business. “1985,” I whispered to the hallway. “Great, here you go, thanks.” He thrust a parcel at me with a warning label: “Contains bladed implement. Over 18 only”. Then he was gone and, with him, every scrap of peace and dignity I had gently cultivated that morning. That was when I nearly destroyed my laptop. An hour later, after the near miss with the coffee, after a brief consolatory hug from my much smoother-skinned companion, I thought about the years writ so evidently on my face. Time heals all wounds, I’ve heard. A cheap nonsense peddled by people who have never been wounded. Turn the other cheek, to err is human, to forgive divine. I’ve heard that too. To paraphrase one of the characters in the latest episode of The Last of Us: what a bunch of victims. Who but an irredeemable victim would forgive the unforgivable? I choose not to forgive. The past, Hilary Mantel says, belongs to those who have suffered in it. A little girl, punished years ago for lying, owns the past and reminds her father who the liar really is. There was a lot hiding in my Notes, when I sat down this morning to write, behind both glasses and sunnies. England is awash in spring sunshine and I can’t bear to be inside. There was a bit about my recent trip to Dublin. Dublin is where I was schooled, where my parents still live, one of them lapsing into demented decrepitude. It’s been a long time since I went back. I’m not a real Dub, there’s nothing that could ever fool you into thinking I am. Doesn’t matter that “feck” starts flying out of my mouth as soon as I roll down the gangplank from the Stena ferry. That I can name every DART station from Dalkey to town. That an article about an Eddie Rockets closure due to rodent faeces contamination brings a nostalgic tear to my eye. Dublin is a marvel these days, with her startled, monied internationalism. Google’s European HQ in the old tarted-up docklands. More Silicon Valley than Joyce around the 40 Foot (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forty_Foot), where everyone is after a selfie in the spot Sharon Horgan and her sisters took a dip on Christmas morning (in the sunshine?!? Wearing pedal pushers and a light jumper?!?). Ah Dublin. In the sun, there’s none can touch you—but the sun scarcely ever touches you. The tide curls around Bulloch Harbour and seals heave themselves onto the rocks in Scotsman’s Bay. No sign of the mail ship scudding out to sea from Dún Laoghaire but if you go into Fitzie’s, the benchettes still bear the faint imprint of Joyce’s arse. There’s a fancy new bike lane that’ll whizz you up along the seafront towards town, where the shuffle of shops along Nassau Street is altered for the first time in living memory. House of Names, with its heraldic plates? Gone. Celtic Music? Gone. Who buys CDs these days? Enya is on Spotify. Knobs and Knockers, the nautical antiques place with the best name ever? Also gone. Molly is still here though, tits rubbed raw for luck at the bottom of Grafton Street. Dublin feels a bit raw alright. Or is that me? The houses are tarted up like an uncomfortable facelift or lapsing gently into disrepair. I prefer the latter but I’m alone in that, it seems. At least the toasted coconut smell of gorse, piña colada on the hillsides of Killiney, hasn’t changed, nor the wych elm, sporting pale green clusters of seed heads like cherry blossom. Ahead of the return, a quick trip to Irish Tesco for as many cans of Beamish as I can carry. That’s a request from my carpenter friend (https://www.lifelitter.org/p/the-village-stocks-and-shares) back home in Oxfordshire. They don’t sell Beamish outside of Ireland anymore, who knows why. The cans on the shelves offer a “creamier head”. Keep them away from yer maiden aunts. I ping his missus a pic and ask is there anything else she would like from Ireland? Access to the single market please. I don’t think Tesco stocks that. Not in this day and age anyway. Never have free market economics been less of-the-moment. I left Dublin, pleased to have made my peace with it, even if some things will never be forgiven. — Back on this side of the Irish Sea pond, spring was in full thrust. The trees wear a filmy negligee of blossoms after the end of March and all of middle England exudes moisture, a long held exhalation of winter’s dampness. Roots stretch and the ground dries. The woods fill in. There are hardly any woods worthy of the name. Meagre clumps dot the fields—polite little tree villages—but, by April, the days are long and full of bees and blossom. And now it’s May, which means I will be 40 in a month. I feel as if I’m straddling some significant isthmus: Corinth, say, en route to the riches of the Peloponnese, before I finally end up in the sea. I hope that I keep my wits, even if dexterity departs. — On the way to the gym, two butterflies circled each other in the road, spinning upwards. I slowed the car to a crawl to let them spin away. At the gym, I crossed the lawn to the stream in my bathing suit, carrying a pair of mating toads that got lost by the shower stalls. At first, I thought it was a mama toad, carrying her baby on her back, but Google told me it’s the much smaller male astride his mate. I left them in a patch of sun at the edge of the stream, still motionless, still going for it. Nettles swished luxuriantly against my ankles and calves. The terror and pity I feel for small helpless creatures in the face of a great, impersonal animosity leaves me crushed and breathless. Not caring would be much easier. Just like not loving would be much easier, when you have ample evidence of man’s faithlessness. Choosing to love is the harder road. In my garden, a patch of speedwell encroaches on the lawn. The apple tree explodes into frothy white blossom and the cherry tree too, pink and perfect: the Platonic ideal of cherry blossom in spring. The water level in the river drops and drops to gently burbling. In November, in thrall to an autumn storm, it was a torrent that swamped the bridge. Now, it barely tickles the roots of a gasping sycamore. So go the seasons, charted in this small patch of river. — A month ago, I went down to London to meet an editor. Almost missed the train but after a full sprint, I was on, chest heaving. It was one of the rare nice trains. Comfortable seats facing forward with padded armrests and ample legroom. [Chiltern Railways, is that you? You ok, hun?] My head clanged. No time to stop at the kiosk. I would commit seven kinds of sin for a coffee, I thought to myself. The guy next to me was on a serious, boring call. Seriously boring. “Yeah, we should almost threaten to pull the team.” Almost threaten is the most British thing I can think of. “It’s not what we can do about it, it’s what we can do in the absence of it.” I wonder what it is. Probably money. Cold, grey and misty in Oxfordshire but sun splitting the sky in London, altogether a different country. No sunglasses because who grabs sunglasses when it’s cold, grey and misty? A man carried a shoulderful of bouquets past me, looking like he’d gone missing from a production of My Fair Lady. I willed him to tip his cap, say “guv’nor” and break into song and dance. (He did not.) In the coffee shop (coffee! finally!) the girl behind the counter was American. We bonded for a moment over California and then I was lost in a wash of when I too worked in a coffee shop at her age: the stress-excitement and performance of calling out names and orders with confidence, turning out a stream of hot custom drinks. Brief euphoria: all these people depending on me to get their morning beverage just right. In London, the shops were forthright, named for what they sell: Eggs and Bacon in Marylebone, Rice and Peas in East Dulwich. In the charity shop where I purchased an emergency pair of sunnies, the woman next to me was carrying a bag that said “Medjugorje” on it. I exclaimed, I just went to Bosnia last year. She looked at me with disdain. “Medjugorje is in Herzegovina.” I felt a fool. “Oh, same thing,” I said, compounding the error. “That’s like saying to someone from Wales they’re from England.” Consider me appropriately chastened. For some reason, we kept talking. I liked her, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the prickliness. I told her I’m here in London to meet with an editor about a book I’m writing. What’s it about, she wanted to know. Something vague about Vienna, I mumbled. “Oh Vienna! I’m half Viennese.” We talked for several more minutes and I told her about the book, in more detail. She listened with interest, looking increasingly concerned and eventually cut me off. “But let me ask you.” She laid a hand on my forearm and seemed deeply troubled. “Will it inspire people to love?” “Yes,” I said. “At all costs.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.lifelitter.org/subscribe (https://www.lifelitter.org/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2)

Reach and audience

Public platform figures. Ratings count people who left a rating, not total listeners.

Spotify

5.0 / 5

1 ratings

Podcast Authority Score: 32 / 100

A composite of feed quality, social presence, YouTube performance and engagement. Read the methodology.

Quality

41

Social presence

0

YouTube

0

Engagement

60

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