Iris Tilling has not given me cause to linger by her gate in a very long while, but my footsteps falter anyway. My gait slows as I approach a house that is the same as any other and conceals a life no more diverse or charmed than any other, but whose charms transcend all others. For a terrible moment I see nothing but an empty yard, dark windows and a closed door and I am overcome by foolishness. I am not as young as I could be and the bravado is only an act that all the world is aware of. The occupant of the next yard passes me a look that would shrivel a cabbage and I nod, flash her an unfounded smile and take a step closer to her neighbour’s gate.
Once at the gate to the Tilling’s yard I stop, halted by the rush of realised hope that washes me down to my underwear. I could stand for an eternity watching her scrub her back step. The sight of a well-rounded rump jostling above the soles of a pair of a well-worn slippers provides all the sustenance I could ever need, but it is unseemly and I stand silent and undecided as to the direction of my next move. My bravado has withered and taken with it any means to uphold propriety other than to turn away and return to my van under a cloud of regret.