This is a good area this is. People work hard to live here. Each house has its own story and everybody knows everyone's story. It's only the edited bits that get into the public domain of course. What they don't know, they make up. Swap details, fill in the gaps until everything makes sense. That man at the end of the estate, doesn't he look just like Elvis Costello? But I've never seen a feller stoop so low when he pushes his mower. Bends himself nearly in half he does. Then there's Engleburt. What kind of a name is that for a man? He comes home every night with a car load of cardboard boxes. One afternoon he thought it would be a bit of fun to shove his daughter in one and wrap the thing in parcel tape. The carpet salesman at number twenty three, he's probably sane, but the mechanic opposite is carrying on with another woman and it surely won't be long before his mousy wife finds out. Then there'll be hell to pay! Two doors down, looks glamorous doesn't she? Well she hasn't paid her taxes and the bald bloke opposite sometimes forgets to put his shoes on and walks to the shop wearing red slippers. Come Christmas he works as a department store Santa – strange job for a bloke who hates kids. The big cheese on the corner? He's a director in a confectionery factory. Just caused a stir because his new Rover has a sunroof and, wait for it, electric windows. This passes for excitement around here. It's a good area.