About a year ago we got new neighbours on our road, Americans. We know this because they drive a camper van, because they have a Ford Mustang in their driveway ( I hope they call it Sally, we all do) and because we have, very occasionally, heard them call to each other in American accents.
We would not know it in any other way, because they keep very much to themselves. So much so that the blinds are always closed at the front of their house. Always. Because we live in bungalows that’s not a lot of windows – just one bedroom and the living room, but their glass front door has a blind on it as well and this too is always closed.
And that’s still not all that remarkable, but their direct next-door neighbour can, of course, see the back of their house from his back garden, and he says all the blinds at the back are closed too.
Three neighbours and I have discussed this in the pub. The obvious explanation, as I insisted, is that they are vampires. To my surprise my neighbours pooh-poohed this idea, by which I mean that they said it was a load of shite. Clearly I am the only Buffy fan in the group.
As Sherlock Holmes one said, whenever you have eliminated the ludicrous, that doesn’t mean that you can’t think up something equally ludicrous.
We have decided that they are in the Witness Relocation Program.
As further proof, one morning one of our neighbours noticed that their wheelie-bin fallen over. As she was standing it upright the woman of the house appeared at the door and ordered her to leave their bin alone (remember, all the blinds were closed, they must have CCTV). Clearly they suspected that she was going through their rubbish looking for evidence of their true identity, since, as anyone who has ever watched thrillers knows, people on the run will always dump envelopes with their real names on them in their bin instead of the wiser options of burning, shredding or even eating the evidence.
I know many of you will scoff, but the fact is that WRP people must live somewhere, so why not here? And I know that you may feel that I am exposing them to danger by relating this tale, but don’t worry.
Our estate was built in stages. the first 18 were built in a Π shape (thank you WordPress), and numbered from No 1 at the bottom on the right around to No 18 directly opposite . Then six more were built to the left of the top bar, but all the residents refused to change their numbers, so 19 to 24 are up there. A final five were then added (WordPress has no symbol to help by this stage, the symbol to the right, that of the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, is as near as I can get to describing our road now) and again the new houses simply took new, higher numbers.
Thus I live in number 6, the house directly opposite is number 13, and the one beside him is number 24.
Pizza delivery guys can’t find people on our road. The Mob haven’t a chance.