“Do you feel like you’re in Sheffield yet ?” said Mrs RM, while I made her coffee and buttered scones.
“I don’t” said Mrs RM, answering the clearly rhetorical question.
She’s right. I may have been called “M’duck” and “Me love” 88 times on trips to Click-and-Collect, I may have noticed the clicking of my knees on the walk up Whitehouse Lane, we may know every street in Kelham Island,
we may even be about to have a delivery from Whippets R’ Us. But it’s not quite home, yet.
Simply put, we’ve yet to meet anyone due to you-know-what, bar a chat about rats with the neighbours and the usual bants with emergency plumber and the carpet fitter and the click and collect staff.
“Ooh, where you from ?”
“Why’d you move here, then ?
“I thought Cambridge was posh” that comment aimed at Mrs RM, not me, clearly.
Come the early summer, we’ll have pubs and football gigs and whippet maintenance courses at the library, and will be able to seek Northern Citizenship in a ceremony involving cans of Abbeydale Moonshine and chip butties.
Until then, I’ve got to do some “garden work“, whatever that is.
I think that could make a nice man cave once it’s cleared.
Or perhaps I’ll just sit here drinking Clwb Tropicana out of Bass glasses, directing Mrs RM and James.
Just like ours, you can see his house from the top of the ski slope.