Excellent news from the frontline. The hedonistic middle-aged couple—the ones who had been lounging across two parking spaces as if reclining on a chaise longue of asphalt—have finally abandoned their weekend of debauchery and driven off. I imagine their car groaned with relief at being released from its position of obscene luxury.
Their departure created a rare and fleeting window of opportunity, and the young couple seized it with the speed and stealth of SAS operatives. Their car is now safely nestled in that precious gap. For the first time in days, they actually look like people who live on this street rather than commuters squatting outside it.
Meanwhile, under the cover of darkness, we staged our own covert operation. Successfully relocated the Missus’s car from the pub car park to the station. A narrow escape, as the pub folk were beginning to radiate the unmistakable aura of people preparing to “have words.” Felt like smuggling a stolen relic across enemy lines.
Life on West End Road has become a strange game of musical chairs—except instead of music there’s just the distant clatter of trains and the hollow sound of residents’ souls leaving their bodies when they see a stranger’s car outside their house.
