It’s kicking off in the Lane with no name (Lwnn). For those who don’t remember the Lane with no name is the lane that runs along the back of Gnomepants manor and connects the other 4 houses to the outside world without having to use the front steps which nobody uses which are steep. In times past it was also used as access for brewery vehicles to the Village Club but they don’t use it any more as they have better vehicles these days.
Sat to my left are a young couple. They are billing and cooing like a bunch of teenagers. They’re supposed to be working. This is a library not behind the fucking bikesheds. He’s talking in that fucking irritating cute voice and she is clinging to him like some fucking human limpet. I’ve seen them about Uni. He talks on her behalf and she just looks sheepish and docile. I bet they’re members of some weird cult.
Yesterday I was trying to get down the Lane with no name. That irritating ignorant fuck next door but one (the aka Good Life) was trimming his hedge. Mr Goodlife, you may recall, is married to a woman that looks like that woman from the eighties BBC drama Life and Loves of a She-Devil. They give the impression that they live self sufficiently and seem to think they own the fucking Lane with No name.
It is communal which means it is shared ownership.
As well as that they were the only people on the row of houses we live on to not come and say hello when we moved in. Anyway, his step ladder (I say step ladder it was more like a stool) was slightly blocking the lane. Now any normal person on seeing a car trying to get past would get out of the way until the car had passed. Not fuckwit. No. He just acted as though I wasn’t there. Ignorant fuck. Instead I had to turn the car round and risk the wrath of Mr Pritchard (next door but one the other way) and go through his gate. As I turned I noticed Mr Good Life topple over onto his front into a bank of nettles. Serves the fucker right.
I told G the Human Dog this morning who added that he had also had run ins with Mr Goodlife blocking the lane with no name when G had been trying to get by.
“Next time ‘e does it ‘am gunna jus leave me car behind his see how he fucking likes it”
I added that G should get me and I’ll move my car into the lane too so Goodlife won’t be able to get past.
I’m sure Mrs Gnomepants wouldn’t approve though.
As a happy ending, the people who own the field behind the “lane with no name” took a trip to an equine fair this weekend and purchased this lovely chestnut mare
Behind the field behind the lane with no name is another field (separated by a patchy hedge and some skilfully placed barbed wire). In the field behind the field behind the lane with no name there are two other horses and a donkey, together with a collection of tatty farm machinery.
One of the horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name is a white and black patchy horsey. The white and black patchy horsey and his friends the donkey and the white horsey all came to say hello to the chestnut mare.
I think the white and black patchy horsey was pleased to see the chestnut horsey (judged by the size of it’s dripping widgy). They all stood round looking at each other over the barbed wire fence. I suspect they have a lot to discuss.
The horse in the field behind Gnomepants Manor died last week. It was quite sudden.
G the Human Dog told me that he suspects foul play. No. He was sure it was foul play. In that some third party, notably a shifty chap that holds a grudge against the people that now live in the house at the end of “The lane with no name” who own the field, had on numerous occasions left the gate open and, in one final act of revenge, fed the horse poison. The motive, is as yet, unclear. But G is adamant that this unscrupulous character had committed the act.
Of course G has no proof to support these claims. It could just be that the horse has eaten something that didn’t agree with it. But village gossip being what it is, such a scandal as a equine poisoner at large, will no doubt keep tongues wagging for some time.
Imagine if you will a neighbour. An elderly neighbour of about 74. An elderly 74 year old neighbour who is widowed.
Then imagine noticing that same neighbour recieves nightly visits from a mysterious man whom she makes no mention of in idle chit chat.
Now imagine the same man arriving everytime under the cover of darkness. Rolling his car in neutral down the hill that is the private lane out the back. Rolling the car in neutral with no lights on.
Finally imagine the same man leaving very late at night. Again under the cover of darkness and again by rolling his car down the hill in neutral…..
What must the neighbours think?
No need to adjust your colour balance here.
Us neighbours. Our neighbours are a funny old bunch. When we moved into our house from Liverpool last August they were all over us, offering us help and kindly advice and hinting at long standing unwritten communal rules like You don’t park there because Mrs So-and-so likes to brush her hair there on a Thursday or Mr Thingy likes to have the gate closed to the tune of the Dambusters on a Friday except in October when he prefers it covering in weasel fur. As the months have passed I’ve noticed how they each have their own little feuds, tollerations and dislikes for one another and how each are as two faced and as bitchy as a room full of stereotypical switchboard operators from the seventies.