Free No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! by Virginia Ironside Page B

fighting-dogs’ lavatory.
    â€˜Well that’s their scheme,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to object.’
    We made a plan to galvanise the residents for a meeting, and for Penny and me to meet there later this afternoon.
Later
    Just come back from viewing the piece of green or the ‘common’, as we have now decided to call it. It makes it sound as if it belongs to the entire community. I have to say it was terrifying. There were gangs of yobs with slavering dogs, most of them wearing nothing but vests and shorts and covered with tattoos (the yobs, that is). It is absolutely freezing still, despite the time of year, and they don’t seem to need anything to keep them warm. Probably it’s their rage that heats them up. Anyway, they all looked furious when, picking our way through the dog turds, we came on the scene. Penny had brought a camera, which didn’t helpmatters, and while she was photographing the false acacia and the plane tree, one of the more aggressive-looking blokes came up to her.
    â€˜Wot you tekkin picture of? Wot you fink ya doin’?’ he said, threateningly. Luckily Penny was at her most bubbly, and she stuck out her hand to introduce herself and said, ‘Penny Anderson. So pleased to meet you! Did you know the council’s thinking of building a hotel here? Don’t you think it’s ghastly? And they’re going to cut down these two beautiful trees!’
    Before we knew where we were, there were about five of these guys around us all nodding and muttering. ‘Fuckin’ disgustin’.’ ‘Somefink oughta be dunnabaht it.’
    â€˜I hope you’ll come along to our Residents’ Meeting soon,’ she said. ‘It’s at my friend’s house – Marie Sharp.’
    My mind reeled as I had a vision of these hardened criminals bursting into what I like to think of as my beautiful home and eyeing my gorgeous pictures and all the things I’ve collected over the years. I could just imagine them storming in, tearing my Pitchforths from the walls, and filling burlap sacks with cherished antiques, not to mention the special duck Gene made for me at playschool and the tape-recording of Jack speaking, when he was two, but when I confided my fears to Penny later, over a cup of tea at home, she said I was being stupid.
    She looked around my immaculate sitting room with her lip curling. ‘They don’t want old Victorian mirrors, or embroidered cushions, or sculptured heads or old gas fittings stickingout the walls,’ she said. ‘Nor do they want drawings by minor English artists like Vivien Pitchfork, or whatever his name is,’ she said, referring to the two delightful little landscapes I’m planning to sell to fund the facelift. ‘They want tellies and iPads and things, and you don’t have any of those.’
    â€˜I’ve got a Patrick Caulfield,’ I said, defensively. I hated the idea that there was absolutely nothing worth stealing in my house. ‘We were at art school together and he gave it to one of my fellow students and she didn’t like it so she gave it to me.’ Even though I must have been staring at it every day as I came down the stairs, I’d only just remembered who it was by, and of course he’s now worth a fortune. With the brooch, the Pitchforths and the Caulfield I could afford a facelift, a breast reduction, a tummy tuck and a pair of brand-new feet – I wish!
    â€˜Who’s he?’ said Penny.
    â€˜He sells for quite a lot these days. And it’s signed,’ I said. ‘And I
have
got a telly,’ I added. ‘And a video recorder!’
    â€˜Call that a telly?’ she said, pointing to my small, wonky, scratched grey box, stuck in the corner. ‘You couldn’t give it away! And no one has videos any more!’
18 March
    I’m really worried about these beetles. There seem to be rather a lot, suddenly. And however many