I spent the day cleaning the front of the house, it's covered in green mould from the winter ( North facing ) , the busy-body old woman from 2 doors away who has never spoken to me, comes creeping towards me.
"are you going to paint that house now?" she asks
- "erm, yes" I reply
"good, that's not a colour I would have chosen", (It's pink - I agree, her house is magnolia - I hate to think what she will say when she realises I'm painting mine dark grey) "Of course, you know why there are all those cracks around the windows and on the front?"
- "arm, yes, the estate agent told me - it's damage from the war " ( flying bomb destroyed every house opposite )
"Oh that's not true - oh no, it was the fire!"
- "what fire, I don't now about that?" (I'm getting nervous now)
"Oh yes, a few years ago - the young man that lived there was mad, dangerous he was, kept begging them to put him away - so in the end he set fire to the house and lay down in the from room to die, they had to take him seriously after that"
Well, at least this explains why the house was so badly refurbished in 1986… I suppose. Every previous occupant since WW2 has gone insane - it doesn't look good for me.
There is a park bench at the top of Harold Road, on the corner where I live, where young teenage couples sit and snog in the evening - I think it's quite sweet, in my day it was a bus stop off the dual carriageway - this is quite a nice spot. Tonight - it was two teenage boys snogging, and I thought - FUCK YEAH!!!!! progress!!!