When I asked my husband what he wanted for his birthday this year, I gasped when he replied ‘to climb Ben Nevis’. How would I, an urban lady, a ‘city-kitty’ master the country skills required to sufficiently fake outdoor life or at the very least not make an utter fool of myself 1300+ metres above sea level on Britain’s highest peak. Never mind the horror of looking like a moose in waterproof trousers.

For weeks I panicked at the thought of being stuck on the mountain in bad weather and tortured myself with Google ‘mountain stories’ of exaggerated danger and recommendations of packing ice axes and survival blankets as part of standard day packs.

The most challenging outdoor thing I have ever done is cycling through the Thames trail from Putney to Richmond – the animals I saw were not of the four-legged variety.

I started to bite nails and toss and turn in the nights that followed. I never know what to do in the country or how to behave in country society. So alien are the vast expanses of mountains, wildlife, lakes and genuinely friendly locals that I find myself at a loss of conversation or common ground.

We arrive in Scotland on a 5C freezing, overcast rainy day and I suddenly feel very sad at the thought we may not be given the opportunity to climb. The next day the rain cleared and at 9.31AM we began our ascent to Britain’s highest peak.

There were a few things we did not expect (1) uninterrupted sunshine, (2) Good spirited banter with the other climbers, (3) my sudden determination to reach the top, (4) how fit I felt and (5) how unprepared I was for the descent mentally.

We climbed for 9 hours in total. I have never perspired so much. When we reached the top, I sobbed. I couldn’t believe I made it and didn’t chicken out. On the descent, my ‘urban cowardice’ kicked in. Despite frequent whimpering, panic attacks, jelly-legs and dizzy spells and a patient husband we made it down in 4 ½ hours (longer than the ascent). I am embarrassed to say my inspiration for coming down was the greater fear of irrational outdoor scenarios such as being eaten by a wolf or being chased by an axe murderer.

Settling down over a bottle of wine, I pondered whether I would do it again. The answer is simple –No. Was it a good experience for me- yes definitely. I just didn’t have that outdoor buzz or head for heights I am ashamed to say. I have more enthusiasm for the London Underground Map design than the mountain-top.

The pleasure I did experience was of the selfless act of fulfilling my husband’s birthday wish and also crawling out of my urban box to experience something pretty overwhelming.

Silence is not something I have ever associated with cities. Cities for me are traditionally full of white noise such as air conditioners, car engines buzzing, sounds of people raising their voices, bells ringing on bicycles, babies crying, broom bristles scratching, neighbours gossiping and market stall sellers marketing their wares. Whatever the sound may be, there is always a steady stream of stimulus which you cannot control and have to put up with.

Some cities I have lived in or visited also have other bonus noises unique to that place. When I lived in downtown New York City it was not unusual to hear a random gunshot in the night which was never resolved or explained in the morning newspapers or even deemed worthy of discussion by the neighbours as it was such a regular sound. I’d often ask the doorman in my old building who slept onsite whether he had heard a particular gunshot in the night to which he would shrug his shoulders every time. In Hong Kong, you’d awake to Cantonese or Mandarin lively conversations which always fascinating me as they sounded more musical than English did to my ears.

I haven’t always lived in noisy city centres and remember as a younger child growing up in the NYC suburbs a cousin visiting from the Bronx who cried all night because she couldn’t sleep. When I asked her why she said it was too quiet and she was scared. Having lived in large cities for the last 20 years of my life I know how she felt last week when I moved to the back room of our flat and awoke to the fear I had gone deaf.

My husband and I have lived in this delightful but very noisy London flat. It is centrally based with an amazing view of the ‘Gherkin’ but on a Saturday night you often felt like you were sleeping in the pub as opposed to in your own bed. Over the years I have been awoken to the following – people performing lewd acts outside my front door, a drunk man leaning on my doorbell while urinating into my mailbox, someone being stabbed (this happened twice), bar brawls, lovers quarrels, drug deals which have gone bad, DIY at unsociable hours –think you get the picture. Noise has become a regular part of our lives in London and potentially something we didn’t process anymore but accepted.

Last week we moved into the back room and suddenly there was no noise at all. Our back bedroom overlooks a garden with a giant fig tree filled with songbirds. These songbirds don’t seem to curse, brawl or get drunk. This silence has been shocking and made it difficult to sleep as I have been accustomed to the lullaby or urban noise to lull me to sleep.

I too may start sobbing like my cousin did back in the 1970’s if it remains this quiet through the winter. Feels like I am sleeping underwater or with earplugs I can’t remove. The French Poet Jean de la Fontaine summed it up for me “People who make no noise are dangerous.”

Having lived in the UK for the past 9 years, I have noticed a certain phenomenon which occurs between October and March and on rainy days – I call it Winter Social Hibernation Syndrome (WSHS). Those in my social circle are less likely to socialise when the weather is miserable and crawl back into their domestic vortexes to avoid contact outside of their daily work commute, childcare and sleeping routines. There are a few exceptions – sturdy Weather Warriors unaffected by the Northern European gloom who don’t seem to have many playmates this time of year.

What can one do to deal with unreliable friends who seem to only come out when they need something essential to their survival in a big city – bread, milk, newspapers and bin liner bags. How do we deal with friends who confess to openly weeping in front of the television to ‘Celebrity Mr & Mrs’ or ‘Wipeout’? Is it acceptable to just agree to see them in the Spring – much like the Swedish living in the remote areas of the North who physically have issues leaving the house due to snow.

My own malaise is also rather odd – as if I have become some kind of Greek mythological creature powered by sunlight and doomed to spend eternity (or the next 6 months to be less dramatic) in some cave.

The same people in your life who spent 5 nights a week in the local Pub Garden last summer will now be locking themselves up –rehabilitating livers, repairing strained partnerships for lost time and hiding under duvets with their Sunday Telegraphs and cups of tea. They won’t pick up phones, delay in responding to text messages and suddenly seem very interested in train schedules.

For those of us who are naturally introverted this time of year is the perfect excuse to re-charge and start working through the bedside reading pile. I am combating my WSHS in three ways this weekend (1) ripping down old carpentry in my flat, (2) donating old clothes and books to charity shops (3) Seeing some live comedy and (4) booking the sunniest long-haul holiday I can afford so I have something to look forward to keep hope alive during the long winter. I’m already too paralyzed by the WSHS to even contemplate a pub lunch, Gauguin at the Tate or the Japanese fair on at the Truman Brewery.

I’m going to turn the ringer off on the phone, put on some sweatpants and settle down to sketch with no disruption today under my rainbow-coloured polka-dotted duvet. I can see the sun making a feeble attempt to change my mind about heading outside to see friends but I just can’t be bothered. My sketchpad and the urban bird songs from my window are enough for this Sunday to keep me content.

I'm nearing forty and through my own decision have decided not to have children. I have many friends who also have decided to remain childless, many who insist on creating alternatives of which they channel their energy to. In my case I have tried to be a good aunty to my nephews, tried to nourish a bonsai and give to charity when I can.

One such childless friend has decided to transfer his energies to stuffed animals. It stated with one stuffed animal from childhood - teddy with a torn ear and re-sewn seams lovingly tucked up into his bed. Then a companion to the teddy appeared to 'balance out the room and keep the teddy company'. Within 16 months, stuffed animals started appearing around his flat many which were posed in situational comedy the friend would explain each 'scene' in detail. To share his passion with us, he has started buying teddies for all of us which represent an aspect of our personalities - mine is a duck. Good grief, an intervention is definitely on the cards for this winter.

Jean-Paul Sartre coined the phrase "l'enfer, c'est les autres” ( ‘Hell is other people’). I started cycling 15 weeks ago to avoid other people on the London Underground where all manners and social graces seem to disappear once people are contained in a moving metal box. After 9 years of being pushed, shoved without any apology to support the reason of some trying to ‘get to work on time’ I decided enough was enough.

How do we as City dwellers become so conditioned to urban life and its’ norms that treating fellow commuters as invisible is acceptable?

However, for me the grass is not necessarily greener on the other side. As a city dweller (now London, previously New York City), I often travel to places like Devon and Cornwall and feel immediately alienated when a stranger on the High Street says hello or dare I say start talking to me about the weather or some other nonsense. I feel just as alienated by this strange behaviour as I do in the anonymous Big City. Townie/Suburb culture avoids this issue as everyone sits in their cars with their radios on- limiting contact with other people.

My bicycle is the perfect solution as it is my own microcosm – universe on wheels where I define my own personal space. Cyclists for the most part give each other wide berth and observe a pecking order which is understood – slower bikes in the back (Bromptons, Frilly dresses) and zippy types (full spandex suit) up front on the road.

Cycling enables me to connect with the heartbeat, the ethos of the city without reducing me to an anonymous commuter.

I'm fretting at my lack of creative progress since the summer ended a few weeks ago. I seem to be more interested (and ashamed to say it) in paying bills, sitting on facebook, picking lint out of my belly button and reading trashy novels.

Tonight I take back my creative life and allow myself to be sloth no more! I've also decided to really focus on updating this blog regularly and stop being so lazy about it. Soooo...if you are reading this please stick with me for the Winter as it is bound to be colourful.

With the Athens show finished and Winter coming I am sitting here thinking about what's next. I've spent the good part of the last year focusing on middle-aged women as a subject and keen to move on to another sector of the urban-alienated public.

I've learned some things about the way I express myself and tried out some new materials and techniques in the last year I am starting to favour - such as the use of paper in my paintings. I've also made some spectacular mistakes and created some true horror.

Going to have a wander outside on this bright Autumn day and see where the mood takes me and my paintbrush.