Bloody Neighbours

Am sitting in my study, overlooking the garden, and suddenly I hear shreiks from next door, as wave after wave of ghastly people seem to be arriving at my neighbours house.

We live in a bog standard turn of the (19th) century North London Terrace.



Big houses, but tiny gardens



And now I can hear all these awful people next door, as they troop into the garden with their devilspawn children SHREIKING



while their parents seem unaccountably oblivious to the hellish noise.

What's wrong with these people? Can't they control these beings?
What happened to discipline?

All I hear is some half hearted comments such as

"Alex, no darling... Say sorry to Leon..." As Alex takes a bite out of Leon's neck.

When I was a nipper, if I misbehaved, my parents would lock me in the root cellar



with only the mummifying corpse of my grandmother for company







Firm but fair my dad used to say. Never did me any harm





OhGodOhGodOhGod I can smell the cloying fragrance of firelighters.

We are clearly in for the long haul this evening as North London takes advantage of the one day of summer by indulging in the traditional sacrifice of chicken legs marinated in rosemary infused extra virgin Umbrian olive oil with peppery afternotes and Provencal herbs brought back from that marvellous trip to Villefranche-sur-Mer.


Electra! Naughty boy! Druscilla, just pop that back on the grill will you: no one will notice

Right. I'm off out.

I may be some time