I grew up poor in rural england and walked miles over fields to school each day, no car, no heating, single-pane glass in 1700s house, a bus only on fridays, etc etc, the 'aesthetic' country living that people so love to romanticise. surrounded of course by the rich.
rural poverty looks like: never tasting unwatered juice or milk, only allowed two sips at a time. saving your birthday money for rent. plain oats, no cereal. your bones hurting from being tensed in the cold in winter because you don't have functioning heating. no kettle or microwave, everything done on the hob. walking in the dark to our landlord's house to pay for electricity to put on the meter, then walking back home. knowing that he is not just a landlord, he is a Lord; as in, yes, a hereditary position. if my mother stops cleaning for him, we'll lose the house. isn't that serfdom?? you're too tired to do anything about it.
washing at the swimming pool instead of home because the hairdryer uses too much electricity. and if you sit for hours with wet hair, you'll get sick. if you do wash at home, doing it right before cooking, so you can dry your hair in the relative heat of the kitchen. the water takes an hour to heat and the whole family shares it, bath growing slowly colder. there's no shower. the sluggishness and lethargy that comes with constantly being cold. the need to meticulously wipe not only the bathroom but all surfaces of the house, windows and walls alike, twice a day to prevent mould from forming from condensation. if you don't get up early enough, the water will drip on the inside of the windows and begin to sink into the frame. once you took the bookcase away from the wall and there were mushrooms, actual black mushrooms, growing behind it. no wonder you'd all been sick so often. no wonder your asthma is bad.
the draft under the door. the chill on your ankles. the way it seeps in through the single-glazed windows, no matter how much you sew, no matter how much you try and cover it. sewing bolsters and curtains and everything we can to keep the heat in. the constant yell of SHUT THE DOOR. going around your house with tights, trousers, a skirt, a dressing gown and a blanket on, all to cover your legs. trying to study for exams but there's no phone signal and the internet keeps dropping because of the storm.
buying all of your food in the reduced section. not even knowing what your preferences are because that has never been and will never be relevant. longing for warmth like a physical ache. jaw in pain with constant tension headache. thinking 5 miles isn't that long of a one-way trip to walk. being VERY good at navigation and knowing points of the compass. the absolute silence and blackness of the night without street lamps. you can't light a fire in the chimney as it's blocked and the landlord won't fix it. it's not a priority, except there's no heating and the house was built for a fire. instead down the chimney comes the howling wind and the cold. it doesn't matter whether the family gets on. each evening you're in one room together. it's the only way the heat stays in.
frozen earth. the pity of your neighbours. the side-eyes and the knowledge that they bought their houses, can install new heating systems. they own those horses. there's nothing to do and nowhere to go. it's dark at 4:30pm and you don't want to be home with your family: your mother once chased your brother with a knife. you're cold. you walk to work miles over the fields aged sixteen and get scolded for having mud on your trousers by the manager. at the time you earn £3.60 an hour, minimum wage. you'd worn separate wellies but it was wet out tonight, path slick and dark before your shift even starts. at midnight when you walk home, miles over fields in utter silence, you hope nobody's waiting in the dark. you're cold. you earned £30. you'll give it to your mother. you like being at work because it's warm.