Pendle Hill, 2007
The air smells of the crisp remnants of spring, the sky glimmers in that sparkling azure. Two biddy ladies sip back their teas on the front porch whilst flipping through their semi-glossy Avon catalogues, eating those little cucumber-on-wonder bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Meanwhile, across the street, you walk through the gate of the slightly jagged and off-white picket fence, past the browning shrubbery, up the double step littered with barbies and their many and varied accessories, through the front door to be greeted by the aroma of brownies baking in the oven, catching a fervent whiff of the special ingredient- the remnants of which lie scattered about the checker-clothed kitchen table in plastic baggies of various sizes, seated alongside your stoic partner.
You head towards the back screen door, swatting away the spring flies that seem to surface as a balance for the pleasantries of the season. Ambling over to the strategically placed hole in the back fence, you hope to catch a glimpse of what your left-wing neighbours are getting up to today. Your eyes fall first upon the fallen ash on a small backyard stool, trailing over to the teenagers in one corner of the yard, all shirtless and uninhibited in enjoying the afternoon’s warm rays. The rose between two thorns stirs suddenly, the calm look in her eyes compelling you to catch her gaze for just a moment before turning away from your peeping hole.
You leave your house again, strolling past the lone wooden horse that is yet to be ridden, past the two young boys playing with black baby dolls, past the young couple that daily roam the main street arm in arm, past the Korean gothic relentlessly practicing her hula hooping skills. You walk for hours, visually gulping in the familiar imagery, listening to the tender murmur of the suburban vernacular.