So our new neighbours have moved in. I’ve only caught a glimpse of the husband (a six plus foot tall titian-haired hunk) but Martyn has met the father of the wife and oh it’s a small world, it seems that they might have worked together at one time in Fulham police station.
I’m still trying to work up the courage to pop next door to say hello, especially since I spied them at 7 o’clock on Sunday morning ripping out every last inch of the front garden to extend the concrete drive so that they can park both cars. Our former neighbour was so proud of his garden, I’m ashamed (but not very) to say that I was cheering them on. By 8 o’clock it dawned on me that I should have gone over and asked to have the flowers they were gaily throwing into plastic bags to take to the dump. I could have planted them in our garden and named each bed after, say, Nelson Mandela, Oprah Winfrey, Toni Morrison et al.