I heard a sad story yesterday. About a neighbour at the back, here, a young woman. They were moving all her things out of the house; her mum, friends, I guess, pitching in, and the house was back up To Let.
Heard she’d come home for lunch one day and her boyfriend had just cleared out. Left her. Gone. Over. They’d only moved in together middle of last year. We liked them being there; smartened up all the garden and the pathway leading up – and how they’d put up Christmas lights all along the handrail, reaching far enough down the path to our side gate, so it was like a friendly meeting-up in so many coloured lights.
I’d kind of guessed that he wasn’t around anymore. You get to know, or at least be passively aware of, who’s coming and going; situated where and as we are – me, mainly, by far, I should say.
So, a shame they’re, or she’s, going.
Her mum, who I was talking with, said she was ‘devastated’. The girl, her daughter, I mean. The mum was more about how never to build any plans around men. A detail (she told me) was how he’d taken his telly – gone when his girlfriend came home that lunchtime. We saw the size of that TV going in, so can understand what a hole that must’ve left. By which I don’t mean to say that the TV’s important. Just a hell of a signal to say that you’ve gone.
Just now I thought the white van had come back for more stuff, but it was the air condensing from our boiler flue in clouds past the window in the cold.