Everyone’s talking about communities.
Mainly online communities where you can connect to people thousands of miles away, where you can make friends with strangers, where after years of talking to someone online (twitter) they become your mates and you go wandering in the Ribble Valley with them.
In the good old days, your community was the street in which you lived.
Today no-one knows their next door neighbour.
NOT IN MY STREET.
There’s Frank who’s not only the small things’ surrogate granddad, but he’s also the saviour of the street. From electrical faults, to blocked drains to emergency bottles of wine and at Christmas his home-made mince pies, Frank is your man.
My neighbours on my left hand side take my bins out every week and on the right hand side Isa has taken to watering my plants for me. I think this is actually due to the fact that she can’t stand looking at their wilting pitiful appearance any longer.
Up the road is Jane who owns the local deli which means the nearly ten year old can go to the deli on her own and I know she’s safe (whilst feeling independent) and Jane 2 who is my long time friend and godparent to the 6 year old. Oh and then there’s the dishy doc (and his wife) – just in case of medical emergencies.
When someone’s alarm goes off, people actually step outside their houses to check and when new people move into the street bottles of wine are delivered (often with people attached to them to have a nosey at the house).
The minute the sun shines, cars are being washed and it has been known that this is followed by a few beers and a street celebration.
This is a real, every day community. It’s a bit rough round the edges but it works and it’s one of the many reasons I love living here.