I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore. Here the house numbers are clumsily spray-painted onto the houses. The privet hedges are untamed and are swallowing up the (already fucked) gates, entrances, the lot. When I finally do find the rusty latch and force my way through the undergrowth, I have to negotiate a path through the piles of children's toys and 'Farmfoods' carrier bags stuffed full of soil (?). I exit this particular close soaking wet (the privet tends to hold a lot of surface water which brushes easily onto me) and with scratched hands. Today I encountered Lancaster's only front door that opens outward, a painful experience. There are also a surprisingly large number of letterboxes installed upside down. They tend to remove that thin, sensitive layer of skin just below your fingernails. Mans stupidity to man.
Oh how I long for Fairfield. Sure, they get a lot of mail: magazines, books, heavy shit. Yes the letterboxes are inversely proportional to the size of the house, huge mansions receive thick Doctors periodicals: they're jammed though exquisitely ornate letterboxes the size of a child's hand. If the magazine in question has a free CD they're fucked ( I rang once and they took so long to answer she eventually apologised as her house was SO big it took her so long to get to the door, not a problem I have myself). But it's paradise compared to this.
I've had enough of the relentless squalor and the dangerous dogs wanting a piece of me. The sour faced, fat arsed young mums, chasing after me in their baggy tracksuits, slippers and severe hair.
'I'm expecting some money' they wail, fag in hand, child in other.
I hand over a wad of brown envelopes/pizza offers and they skulk away til tomorrow.
At least the grass is returning to it's former green state. Now the wild hounds have somewhere decent to shit. Along with the kids.
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