I knew that my adjustment to living here was complete when, this morning, I hit the send button of an email. I had written to the parish council suggesting that the local church change its street signage. This is, of course, the critical moment when the character undergoes a metamorphosis into Flora Robson. ‘The board is in a shade of blue one associates with a major hospital,’ I wrote in mild protest.
I was about to file him away as a bisexual in search of his first same-sex experience
I suggested a smaller sign in heritage-green. The clerk of the parish council obviously runs a tight ship because she responded within the hour. A new sign was being ordered, she said, and thanked me for my interest. Naturally, being English, I replied thanking her for replying to me. She then replied, thanking me for thanking her. I then ended the correspondence because courtesy, unchecked, may continue until one of you dies, or it becomes 84 Charing Cross Road.
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