The eight o
clock call to go out on doorsteps and cheer for the NHS and health workers was
the biggest thing to happen in my street since John and Margaret’s Christmas drinks
party.
I unearthed
my last four party poppers from a little-known drawer in the Welsh dresser which
had not been opened since the days long-ago days of teen parties. (Another turning-out task, I noted.)
Our cul-de-sac
is a quiet one, not given to hullaballoo.
But we managed a reedy, self-conscious cheer.
And four party
popper bangs which, in retrospect, may not have been a good idea. It probably sounded as if Nigel and I had
barricaded ourselves in with guns and were defending our well-stocked freezer against
raiders.
We had a
yelled conversation with John and Margaret opposite as the icy breeze swirled
around us.
And although we said very
little, really, it made us realise how lovely it is to catch up with
neighbours, the people we rub along with each day and whom we miss when we don’t
see.
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