Angels

Angel voices

Their voices were not as I expected. The young couple from round the corner, the man with the white handle-bar moustache, the one with the vanity number-plate, the woman who with the black dog, the man who always wears short and long socks, the lady with the perfectly kept window-boxes.

There were voices I knew well too: my smoking neighbour, the old lady from the top of the hill who always greets me with a smile and a wave, the Green Party supporters opposite and the true owner of my cat.

This evening would have been a good time to burgle Angel Lane. Twenty or so residents all congregated on The Angel Inn. Service was slow and the woman who volunteers behind the bar at the Cruising Club wasn't impressed. "They knew we were coming," she muttered in disgust.

We were there for a mundane reason: to talk about the council's proposals to make our street one-way. Lubricated with beer, G&T or orange juice, conversation flowed and the characters fleshed out.

I was one of the first to leave the meeting. With bucket and sponge I started to wash the car. In little groups they walked past, their voices familiar now. The smoker nodded towards her own car, a question in her eyes. The woman with the dog smiled. The man in the shorts stopped for a chat before breaking away: "I'll bid you a good night now."

If our new neighbourhood is even half as friendly as this one we'll have struck a goldmine.