Yesterday I met my new neighbour Fiona. We stood across the street, gate and pavement, conversation cut by the wind and it felt like the good bits of the 50s: time to natter. To put our hands in our cardigans and sit by the front door as the world passed by.
Fiona is a 70s chick. She took acid once with David Bowie’s wife Angie. She has two small dogs. She used to teach art and was a youth worker. She lives with her son who is climbing the walls because the gym is shut. They might kill each other, it’s possible, she tells me with a smile.
Maybe our new street is always this friendly? But all this rolling time plus my little bench in the front yard must help. Lapping up the vitamin D of sun-rays, scribbling my lists, if I’m lucky a new neighbour passes by and tells me their story...