Trading places is a tough job

Kasha Harmer Hirst lives in a minimalist apartment with a Zen pebble garden in Marylebone, and can't exist without black cabs and soya decaf cappuccinos. Lucy Cavendish lives with her five-year-old son Raymond in a cottage with a picket fence in Oxfordshire, and can't exist without clutter and the heady scent of cowpat.

So what happens when they swap their urban and country lifestyles for 48 hours?

Kasha trades London life for the country
Lucy swaps rural England for the big city

Kasha Harmer Hirst goes to Oxfordshire

I love travelling - just not in England. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I've left London and enjoyed it. Mostly it's been a disaster: the party in Bradford where everyone laughed when I ordered Perrier; nights spent in stale-smelling B&Bs with ferocious landladies trying to bully me into a breakfast fry-up. The scars are deep and I've long learned to expect an anxiety attack if I can't hail a black cab and am not within walking distance of Selfridges.

I love London. I thrive on its endless possibilities, its awesome potential. I love the rich ethnic mix, the sense of belonging to a city that champions the individual. It's friendly, civilised - and open all hours. But I'm willing to be proved wrong.

Friday at 6pm, and I head out of London with three bags of Waitrose's finest, the New Man, a case packed with combats and camouflage - and a stomach full of butterflies. All I know is there are no shops in the village. So far, so freaky.

Just an hour up the A40, we're in Oxfordshire. The cottage is perfectly sweet but so not me, all crooked lampshades and kid-sticky surfaces. There is plenty of space; two reception rooms on the ground floor, two bedrooms on the first and a tiny staircase rising up again to a large, low attic. There are wooden floors, low ceilings with beams and lots of mix-and-match furniture.

The kitchen is functional (but alarmingly, there's no microwave or dishwasher and I should have brought my juicer) while the bathrooms have baths but no power shower. The back lawn is big-ish and there is a pool. I'm sure estate agents would rave, but I can't help thinking it would look so much better bleached by sunshine. It's colder and darker here than in London and I feel quite exposed, not cosy at all.

We switch on the heating to take the chill off the air and break out the red wine and Lord of the Rings. We feed Honey, the giant ginger tom, who is much more macho than my pampered pussies and just scowls at us. And so to bed, to the sound of a dripping tap. I dream of bolting home but Lucy's sleeping in my bed.

Saturday, and I have no session at Nails Inc, no trip to Top Shop, no walk around Regent's Park Rose Garden to look forward to. I was hoping for a sleep fest but we are woken at seven by the sound of the octogenarian paperboy whose leavings we devour: temporary respite from our rapidly increasing boredom. We're starving, but there's no 'soya decaf cappuccino and fresh bagel to go' in the village and the biscuits that we opened last night have gone stale with damp.

I dread the thought of neighbours popping round to see if we are settling in all right, and when there's a knock on the front door (an event in itself, everyone usually marches merrily round to the back), I'm pleased to find that my Jehovah's Witness repellent (a loud and assertive 'No Thanks' accessorised with beatific smile) works just as well here as it does in town.

New Man has evolved into a blend of Grumpy, Dozy and all their mates. We seek refuge at the local. I'm not really a pub girl but my heart warms at the sight of the Frog, just a minute's walk down the nettle-lined lane. The froggy theme seems a tad overworked (china frogs on the walls, 'flaming frog' cocktails) but it's clean, warm and welcoming, and the regulars don't seem too alien. The Frog does serve food, even a couple of vegetarian dishes but apparently we are too late for lunch and too early for supper.

The sun comes out for an hour mid-afternoon so we go for a walk, yawn at some livestock, then read some more. We plan to return to the Frog for supper but change our minds when we peer through the window and see a room full of middle-aged, middle-England folk in best pressed M&S. We could venture out to find somewhere else but we'd have to navigate those lanes so we switch on the TV and eat chocolate.

Sunday and I'm dying to go home. Only pride has so far stopped me phoning Lucy to see if she'd mind cutting the experiment short. I could be back in time for my midday class at Triyoga followed by Sunday lunch at Caf? Caldisi on Marylebone Lane. Guiltily, we pack up and leave, listen to the Archers in the car and wonder why we just don't get it.

I had hoped I'd fall in love with the tranquillity of green fields but, frankly, I was bored to sulky tears. It was supposed to be a growing experience and I'm ashamed I was so crap at it. But I love my London life. I've been spoilt by its stimulation.The country sends me comatose. I'd love a house in the country - just not this country, where the great outdoors is dull in drizzle. London is just so full of options, full of life. And it doesn't smell of wet dog.

Lucy Cavendish goes to Marylebone

It's 5.30pm on Friday and I'm supposed to be in London. My five-year-old son Raymond is in the car. I've packed just about everything I can think of when my best friend rings. She's very excited.

'London for the weekend, eh?' she says. 'Designer pad? How fantastic.' I watch Raymond spill half a can of fizzy drink on the front seat of the car. 'Yep,' I say, 'terribly exciting.'

The truth is, I am really looking forward to this weekend. I imagine two days of fun - a night out, cultured conversation, Sunday lunch in the park... So we happily leave behind the deer, the chickens, the garden, and Timmy the postman. We are really rather excited. 'It's so big,' says Raymond, as we drive across the A40 flyover. 'Is this all London?' I tell him it is and his eyes go like saucers.

I'm not sure who gets the biggest shock, though, when we arrive at our temporary home behind Marylebone station - myself or the two inhabitees, a pair of cats called Black and White. I assume they were named to match the monochrome decor. Everything comes in one of the two shades, from the artfully arranged leather sofas to the bath towels. It is exquisite. There's nothing in it apart from objets d'art that look extremely expensive and very breakable.

'Wicked,' says Raymond when he sees the cats. I remember they are not allowed outside and we've left the door wide open. But the cats do not move. They are transfixed by the sight of Raymond waving a remote-control dinosaur at them. Then they hare upstairs. Raymond hares after them. The staircase is narrow and slippery and designed in a spiral that twists up through the house to the two bedrooms. Scatter, scatter, scatter go the cats. Clatter, clatter, clatter goes Raymond. This is going to be a disaster.

Within an hour we have turned a Zen-like paradise into clutter-hell. My best friend arrives to babysit, opens up some beers and then insists on sitting in the Japanese pebble garden ('Stones!' says Raymond, 'Let's throw them!') to smoke cigarettes. I can't work out how to use the minimalist electric hob - there don't seem to be any controls. Nor can I find sugar, salt, pepper, the kettle, the square dishes on which the cats are to have their three-minute microwaved fish. Or the microwave. Raymond then decides to throw the loo roll down the stairs. 'Look how it falls down in curves!'he says to my best friend. I then cannot find any more loo roll. I leave them to it and go out.

Five-thirty am on Saturday, and Raymond is awake. He always wakes up early but at home he goes downstairs and shuts the doors so he doesn't wake me up. Here there are no doors. There are huge chasms of space which means that all sounds carry much further and are far louder than usual.

'Good morning cats!' yells Raymond. I put my fingers in my ears. The cats run back upstairs. By 11am everything has got worse. I lose Raymond in Marks & Spencer. I find him chatting to a woman who is trying to warn him of the perils of London. 'Not everyone is nice here,' she says. I buy chocolate muffins, some hand-cooked crisps, and some fruit crush. When we get to the check-out Raymond drops all the crisps out of his packet. A woman in the queue calls him a 'stupid boy.' I want to hit her. Raymond is confused. 'Why did she say that?' he asks.

There is no respite. That afternoon we go to the Natural History Museum. Raymond loves it but can't stand queuing to see the dinosaurs. He waves at every taxi because he thinks it's funny when they pull over. By the time we get back to the flat I'm exhausted. I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep, imagining that I am single and thin and attractive and can spend my life in minimalist splendour socialising with my attractive and witty friends.

When I wake up, Raymond has smeared chocolate muffins all over the leather sofa and tipped his fruit crush over the sheepskin rug. 'Sorry,' he says. I clear everything up, before going out to smoke in the Japanese pebble garden. The cats have not touched their microwaved food.

By the next morning I have started to feel claustrophobic. I am missing the air and the hills and the space. I think I am going slightly bonkers. Just as I am about to cook breakfast and phone some friends to arrange to meet in Hyde Park, a really odd thing happens. Kasha arrives back early. It's 10.15am. We hadn't agreed to swap back till 5pm. I haven't cleared up yet. I can't think of anything to say. I feel really deflated.

So we pack up the car and come home. 'Do you think she didn't like our house?' I say to Raymond. 'Perhaps she was missing her cats,' he says. When we get back, we put on our wellies and go for a walk. Then we do what we always do. We stand on the hill opposite and look down on our village. 'It's beautiful, isn't it?' I say to Raymond.

'Yes, Mum,' he says. 'It is.'