Ian was at the house today, finding the lost alarm fob, fixing the locks in the pool room, sweeping and generally being energetically practical.
He met another neighbour, Jane (of course, he can remember names) and her son Alfie.
“Do you know what happened at your house?” enthused Alfie.
“I’m sure he does,” his mother quieted him.
But no, we didn’t. When Norman died, he wasn’t found as we’d assumed curled up peacefully like Norman Spider in his web. There was an air ambulance and it landed on the village green. Air ambulances are exciting stuff. They’re exciting in the heart of London where sirens are as constant as tinnitus. In rural Britain they’re the stuff of legend, the fulfillment of childhood dreams.
It must have been pretty apparent to the ambulance crew that Norman wasn’t going to make it, because he wasn’t whisked away to A&E. Instead they took Alfie for a ride. How cool is that? How will we ever live up to it?
We haven’t even moved in and we’re already a disappointment.
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