London: too expensive for families

When I saw the second blue line appear on the pregnancy test, I burst into tears. It was one morning last summer and I found myself lying on the bathroom floor, crying like a baby. In retrospect, I know the outburst had more to do with raging hormones than any serious psychological breakdown, but at the time it felt like the end of the world. I was 28, and had been married to John for three years - finding out I was pregnant should have been the best news I'd ever had. But the lifestyle I'd always dreamed of had begun to feel like a living hell.

I couldn't see that there was any way a baby could fit into our hectic London lifestyle - or that we would ever be able to give him or her the best things in life. This time last year I lived in a one-bedroomed flat in Camden; my wardrobe bulged with the season's size 10 clothes and my baby-blue Smeg fridge was empty but for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I had a glamorous, if stressful, job as features editor on a glossy magazine and a social life so busy that my liver was in danger of imploding through vodka abuse. John was a virtual stranger, a body I bumped into briefly in bed at night when our hectic lives allowed. We were too tired for sex. Neither of us could imagine having enough energy left over to bring up a child.

Even though John and I both had careers - he is a selfemployed carpenter; I was earning a healthy salary - I felt that unless I won the Lottery, there was no way we could continue our London lifestyle and bring up a child. I didn't want to cram our tiny flat with cots, high chairs and activity gyms, but we couldn't afford anything as palatial as a house within the M25. I was also worried about the noise a new baby would make through our paper-thin walls.

I'm sure if you're Liz Hurley or Kate Moss, London is a perfectly lovely place to bring up baby. You can frolic on Primrose Hill with your offspring by day and party in Soho by night, safe in the knowledge that your little one is safely tucked up with the nanny.

For the rest of us mere mortals, the capital is not always such a pleasant place to be. Like many Londoners, we lived nowhere near our parents - mine are in Scotland, John's are in the West Country - and so we wouldn't be able to get them to help out with childcare. There was no way we would be able to afford a nanny. I knew from the few friends of mine who'd had children in London that getting junior into a decent state school, or even a suitable nursery, involved endless interviews and even, in one case, a change of religion.

I didn't want to live my life to a strict timetable, grabbing groceries in my lunch break and then haring home to take care of a baby I didn't see all day. I'd had enough. For someone who was so focused on her career - I had always wanted to work on a magazine - giving in my notice felt like such a huge relief; I felt liberated. I had always been defined by my job, but now that I was going to have a baby, that no longer seemed very important. I decided I was going to write that novel I'd always been talking about. John could find work anywhere. And so, as my bump started to protrude over the waistband of my much-loved Earl jeans, we decided to downsize our lives and move to John's old stamping ground in Bath.

Our rabbit hutch in NW1 was on the market for less than a week before a cash buyer offered the asking price. We traded it in for a three-bedroomed, four storey, 150-year-old terrace on a hill high above Bath. The bathroom is larger than our sitting room in Camden. We have a garden so big that we've had to start watching Ground Force. I have an office in the basement with its own ensuite loo. We even have a nursery (although we can't afford the nanny yet).

Best of all, instead of opening the curtains and coming face-to-face with a high rise, we now have breathtaking views of lush, green, rolling countryside.

I love my new house. Which is just as well considering I spent a Victorian-style confinement there, hiding my pregnant self from the world and sleeping off seven years' worth of hangovers. I put on three stone, spent the winter on the couch wearing oversized tracksuit bottoms, sharing cheesecake with my Jack Russell terrier, Tilly, counting stretch marks and finishing my novel. It's the tale of a girl who "has it all" - it nearly destroys her.

In the spring, I gave birth to Olivia - a beautiful, brownhaired, blue-eyed angel. I discovered through ante-natal yoga, baby cafè and post-natal aerobics that Bath is full of young couples with babies who've jumped off the treadmill and left London in search of the good life. My life is so busy that I don't know how I ever had time for a day job, or to go to glamorous parties (or wear make-up, or wash my hair).

Of course I still have to work but at least I'm free of office politics. Although I must admit I do miss the kudos and have been known to drop "When I interviewed Britney Spears" into conversations. (Well, I never said I'd stop being shallow.)

MY relationship with John is better than ever - even though we have much less money, we don't spend it in the way we used to: eating out, taxis, expensive treats to make up for being so stressed out. I no longer buy any clothes, and instead spend every penny on Olivia (I can't believe I used to spend £200 on a head of highlights). Away from the rat race, we actually have time to enjoy each other's company. John gets home from work at 5.30pm and, once Olivia is asleep, we can sit on our deck and share a bottle of red wine. Tilly is a different dog now that she has fields to run in and rabbits to chase.

Of course, there are things about my old life that I miss. When I catch a glimpse of something small, black and sequined at the back of my wardrobe I feel a stab of nostalgia. I miss my sporty little yellow MGB which had to be replaced by a sensible Saab. I am sometimes gripped by an all-encompassing longing for Topshop in Oxford Circus. And I'm sure I would miss my friends more if they didn't keep arriving on my doorstep every weekend.

In the office, I used to experience a daily dip at four o'clock. I would suddenly feel exhausted, depressed and desperate to escape. These days at 4pm, I generally find myself walking on Bath Racecourse. I wear Hunter wellies, a baseball cap and a Puffa jacket. I pass the time of day with friendly West Country folks while Tilly sniffs their labradors and Olivia gurgles in her pram. I can see Wiltshire, the Cotswolds and Wales. I might not have it all - I'm not rich, I'm not thin and I'm not in with the "in crowd" - but I am happy. And how many people on the Northern line at rush hour can say that?

Katie Agnew's first novel, Drop Dead Gorgeous, is published in the spring by Transworld.