Do YOU KNOW the road I live in-- Ellesmere Road, West Bletchley? Even if you don't, you know fifty others exactly like it.
You know how these streets fester all over the inner- outer suburbs. Always the same. Long, long rows of little semi-detached houses--the numbers in Ellesmere Road run to 212 and ours is 191--as much alike as council houses and generally uglier. The stucco front, the creosoted gate, the privet hedge, the green front door. The Laurels, the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, Mon Abri, Mon Repos, Belle Vue. At perhaps one house in fifty some anti-social type who'll probably end in the workhouse has painted his front door blue instead of green.
That sticky feeling round my neck had put me into a demoralised kind of mood. It's curious how it gets you down to have a sticky neck. It seems to take all the bounce out of you, like when you suddenly discover in a public place that the sole of one of your shoes is coming off. I had no illusions about myself that morning. It was almost as if I could stand at a distance and watch myself coming down the road, with my fat, red face and my false teeth