Forgiveness
When is the best time to tell the neighbours that you intend to dig a 60ft-long, 12ft-deep trench down the middle of the street? In the process, removing almost 100 tonnes of soil, subsoil, tarmac and the odd paving stone together with lifting two manhole covers. Thereby cancelling any access to their garages and all on-street parking.
Umm, perhaps now?
If you are reading this, dear (newish) neighbours, do not think badly of me. I agree that perhaps I should have broken this news to you earlier. Or maybe come round with a tray of freshly baked brownies that you could have used as missiles to lob at me.
I realise this open letter may cast me as the Phil Collins of Hastings; the man who was said to have sent a fax to his wife announcing their divorce. But I do not want us to get divorced – most of us haven’t even had a first date. I did consider confessing this impending week-long inconvenience (I know, it’s bad) to lovely Professor Michael over in Exmouth House. However, he appears to have broken his leg in three places after one of his huge motorbikes fell on him, so I decided he might have other things on his mind. Like not being able to get into a taxi right outside his own home. Again, my fault.
I also thought of mentioning it to Morgan, the groovy designer who lives in the tall, thin house with the lovely wrought-iron balcony, but then he seems to have a ‘Sold’ sign outside his door so I thought: Why bother him unnecessarily?
The problem, as you may have noticed, is I have yet to be a proper neighbour. I have failed to invite any of you over for dinner. Or even afternoon tea. My feeble excuse? I have no place to cook. Or even wash up. Hence trench. Without it, there can be no drain, down which all post-party foamy detritus disappears.
When Mr Greenwood came round last year to discuss the missing plughole, he said it wasn’t going to be easy. The house is on a hill, on a gradient of 1 in 3. Built on rock. But Mr Greenwood liked a challenge. He knew the sewerage map of Hastings like the back of his hand. Sixty years hard-won experience. Tragically, gentle, wise Mr Greenwood died last month and mine is the last job he meticulously planned. Mercifully, he had trained Scott, his son, well and so I know we are in safe hands. ‘You can choose your friends, but not your neighbours,’ Mr Greenwood said to me when we last met. ‘Although you struck lucky here.’
As always, he was right.
Next week: Who knows?
Umm, perhaps now?
If you are reading this, dear (newish) neighbours, do not think badly of me. I agree that perhaps I should have broken this news to you earlier. Or maybe come round with a tray of freshly baked brownies that you could have used as missiles to lob at me.
I realise this open letter may cast me as the Phil Collins of Hastings; the man who was said to have sent a fax to his wife announcing their divorce. But I do not want us to get divorced – most of us haven’t even had a first date. I did consider confessing this impending week-long inconvenience (I know, it’s bad) to lovely Professor Michael over in Exmouth House. However, he appears to have broken his leg in three places after one of his huge motorbikes fell on him, so I decided he might have other things on his mind. Like not being able to get into a taxi right outside his own home. Again, my fault.
I also thought of mentioning it to Morgan, the groovy designer who lives in the tall, thin house with the lovely wrought-iron balcony, but then he seems to have a ‘Sold’ sign outside his door so I thought: Why bother him unnecessarily?
The problem, as you may have noticed, is I have yet to be a proper neighbour. I have failed to invite any of you over for dinner. Or even afternoon tea. My feeble excuse? I have no place to cook. Or even wash up. Hence trench. Without it, there can be no drain, down which all post-party foamy detritus disappears.
When Mr Greenwood came round last year to discuss the missing plughole, he said it wasn’t going to be easy. The house is on a hill, on a gradient of 1 in 3. Built on rock. But Mr Greenwood liked a challenge. He knew the sewerage map of Hastings like the back of his hand. Sixty years hard-won experience. Tragically, gentle, wise Mr Greenwood died last month and mine is the last job he meticulously planned. Mercifully, he had trained Scott, his son, well and so I know we are in safe hands. ‘You can choose your friends, but not your neighbours,’ Mr Greenwood said to me when we last met. ‘Although you struck lucky here.’
As always, he was right.
Next week: Who knows?