The neighbours aren’t very happy about my choice of yard art, the bunch of stuck up metros. Most of them are incomers, from t’smoke, not been here for more than a decade or so, and here they are turning up their noses at ordinary people, hard working citizens, educated in the school of life, not in the galleries and museums named after philanthropists renowned for their generosity and for their earlier ruthless approach to accumulating huge fortunes at the expense of the little man like myself.
It makes me sick. I mean, take number 7 over the road, the Stitchbothams, they leave their outdoor Christmas decorations up way beyond the twelfth night, all reindeer and santas and bleeding little gnomes, talk about lack of taste, they’ve got no shortage of it.
As for them at number 12, well! Let me tell you …
Oh, my turn? Pints all round then?
Written for Mondays Finish the Story found here.