The perfect neighbourhood

When I was trying to ensconce myself in Spain, I remember staring out of the apartment evening one Saturday and watching the locals have a community barbecue. It was a lovely moment; I had had a good day’s writing, wasn’t in the least bit bothered about not having been invited, and was admiring the way multiple generations of multiple families just got on with the business of liking each other and not being pricks.
 
Of course, it happens in a lot of places. You only need to see the pastoral rustic documentaries coming out of England – Midsomer Murders; Father Brown; Downton Abbey – to know that this sort of behaviour is rife in England. The Anglo-Saxon world, in its Throwback Thursday mode (this decade, we are in Throwback to the Empress Maude mode), is rife with it; the States have completely lost the plot; why even we here in Canada have had our moments. It is pretty bloody depressing to be honest.
 
But… every now and again, you look out of your window and see perfect little scenes from the perfect little neighbourhood. Families sitting on their steps in the late evening sun, chatting and laughing together. It really is quite reassuring.
 
And as soon as I finish this contract, I am going to go and sit on my step and join in the fun. Well, once the leaves start falling off the bloody big tree out front. Or maybe I’ll just take a chair, bring a bottle, and go and sit on their drive.