Guess Who Ran off With the Milkman?

There is a street, in a lovely little neighbourhood; just north of that town your grandma’s favourite bread is baked in, where anything is news.

If Robby, that little paperboy, dog leafed Mr Hunter’s paper, well, it’d be the town gossip for at least 2 months.

That time Mary-Jane cut her knee in Mrs Halliwell’s back garden, it became scandalous! And really, it had only been of a paper cut worthy slit, but such a thing is to be expected in such a place.

Homes are safe with the knowledge that kids would not dare wander where they should not step and lives can sleep easy knowing they will not be disturbed by anything this side of the river. A better life could not be sought after by the residents of perfection.

However though; this was not that street.

To say that the latest arrivals to the street were classed as news would simply be a lie, and on Mrs Peters’ old street, a lie would simply not be acceptable, even though they had once formed the foundations of her own marriage, childhood and birth.

The residents of Luxus Street almost saw their little neighbour hood as a game, and “newbies”, well, good for a few chuckles, but until they developed into the surroundings, Charlotte Chatwin may have been the only one upon the street to actually want to know them and not impress them with their partner’s flexibility, as a certain Alex Davies decided to do.

Tutting to herself as she worked, Charlotte, began polishing those pots as she waited for the cookies to turn that shade of golden brown. The pot roast had been in the oven for half an hour and was nearly ready for a second basing. Potatoes lay, covered in goose fat, in the foil covered tin upon the granite surface, side by side to the basket of fruit, coupons and other nourishing snacks.

It had once been Old Mrs Avin who reaped the bounty of Charlotte’s good nature, but one artery stretch too far and it was the homeless around the suburb that suddenly gained a few extra pounds and some extra inches around the waistline.

A few moments to spare gave her the opportunity to straighten up those front curtains. As much as she didn’t like to admit it, there were times when it wasn’t just the neighbours curtains twitching, she was only human, and after all, who didn’t like a good peek?

Like now, for instance, as her eyes fell upon her neighbours garden; Mr Paul never mowed the lawn, trimmed his bush or watered the flower beds, so on weeks when his gardener didn’t show, well, it always seemed to ‘slip his mind’, until one of the neighbours would sneak about at night with a pair of trimmers and set to work,

If someone was to peek through his own curtains, they’d notice a man, slumped upon the sofa, a can of beer upon the table. Even those in the higher society needed an off day, Ali Paul just liked to have a few too many.

Maybe, if a certain “street newbie” was to discover this, a firm friendship could be formed, but alas, his eyes were still a little distracted by the site before him. An assumption may be that one should turn away, cover their eyes and hide out, but such a sight was hardly a regular; theatre porn, as many of the street’s residents would scoff and deem it.

No matter how new she was, it didn’t matter, it was Little Laura who seemed to sum it all up, that tad more perfectly than expected.

“It’s all a bit desperate housewives if you ask me.”