Personal

Yellow

It's another warm evening so both front and back doors are wide open, inviting a breeze to frighten the heat from the house.

Having the doors open connects me to the community too. (This goes back to my days in Hall, room door open to the gossip and fights on the corridor.)

Summer on Angel Lane invites a constant stream of tourists keen to explore the side-streets of this market town.

Occasionally they'll come in clusters. Sometimes it'll be a guided tour, with the guide pointing out the house opposite mine ("five years old", he'll say), the one next door ("one hundred years") and then mine ("three hundred") before going on to pity the tarmac-covered cobbles.

And on other occasions the stream of visitors will be steady, but they'll all have something in common. A week or two ago everyone who passed clutched a sheet of yellow paper. I still haven't figured out its purpose.

I just sit here, smiling back at those peering in, daring them to say "hello".