Castle Hill ll from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.
I'm still having to step over last year's dead Christmas tree to get to the letter box at 87 Granby Park.
A woman with tight jeans and a furry hat with ear flaps mistook me for a colleague who'd recently featured in The Daily Examiner for doing the shopping for some of his elderly customers during the cold spell; she told me how much old Mr Mallinson had appreciated me getting his fags for him.
I handed over a parcel to a man in his fifties with some keys on his belt. It was obviously a Christmas present and so he said "Bloody Hell! Someone's got money to burn... I'm a miserable sod aren't I?" He laughed hysterically and then said "Thank you my man" to me three times in an west midlands accent and shut the door.
Just past the interior designer's house with the upvc porch and the fake leaded lights in a stylised tulip pattern, about ten yards down from where he parks his white Astra with the body kit and the white circular cardboard air freshener which dangles from the rear view mirror and has the word "air" die-cut out of it in helvetica bold, opposite the red brick inter-war semi called "UP EM HALL" with the 3-wheeler motorcycle on the drive, half buried in the pile of mucky snow across from the house with the six foot high inflatable Homer Simpson wearing a santa hat, I discovered I could find eternal peace of mind—from just £28.00 per annum*
*According to the promotional leaflet about insuring memorial stones and headstones I found there.