'The houses are big in Babington Road, that's where I live, that's how I know"; so begins one of my songs. But ( and I once promised my English teacher that I would never start a sentence with 'But') this is not strictly true. Towards the top of the road , where I presume Goerring indirectly destroyed a couple of houses before I was born, is a basic unit of local authority dwellings. Outside this building sits Lady Babington with her son and heir, side by side in the seats of an orange transit van at all times of the year, leading me to believe that (a) their accomodation is not as spacious as their neighbours, or (b) they like to keep an eye on their subjects. He is a pleasant enough man and I am not, if pleasantness is to be measured by the inane grin of strangers. His mother is a dessicated shrew fashioned from old suitcases whose sole purpose in life is to make his life a misery, as far as I can gather.
The other day I wandered up to the newsagents in time to be accosted by her as she left the flats in perennial moonboots and turban, clutching a puffa jacket to her scrawny frame."Have you seen him, the fat cunt, he's fucked off without me'. Now I know there is occasionally what confused people refer to as 'bad' or 'dirty' language on this site ( personally I'm indifferent; it's not clever to swear any more than it is clever not to) and I'm sure it would be nice to keep the Web 'clean' for the sake of the little ones, but this is how the public speak, and it is what she said. Anyway, yesterday I decided instead to turn left at the end of my garden path ( I say mine but I share it with the other tenants), just to avoid this pair and to use the shops over the railway bridge instead; this route, though longer, has the added advantage of taking me past the guitar shop and I'm quite keen to purchase the new 'Burns Marquee' if I can brave the sniggering of the staff who remember my previous trial run.
As I neared the junction with the main road I saw four teenagers (a girl and three boys) leaving the semi-derelict house on the corner; as they walked down the path, one of the boys threw a half-brick through the front window and they all ran off down the road past the side of the house. At this moment an old man came out of a side door and threw a half empty milk bottle at the group of youths; it landed in the road as an orange transit van came past. I didn't hear the tyre burst, I just saw the van slew across the road towards me and ram the garden wall that I had jumped clear of moments ago. Nobody was hurt unless you count Lady Babington's attack upon her son with a rolled up Argos catalogue.
So, are they spending time indoors now? No. They've aquired a navy blue horse transporter with some sort of heraldic insignia over the cab - and she's had her turban cleaned.