Territory

I am going to do it. Soon — along with the book of French roundabouts. Peoples' front gardens. The statement: who we are, how tidy are we, are we just a little bit exciting, eccentric?
A short wander through one of my lurking zones of Limoux found this wall. I want to meet the people behind it . . .  might go back and try and sell them some solar panels just so I can find out what they look like. Chances are, knowing that district, she will be about sixty-seven in a blue-flowered house coat, and his high point of the week will be getting the spotless clio out on a Saturday to do the Leclerc run. Or . . . maybe I'm completely wrong!
When I was about eleven I used to walk to and from my terrible comprehensive school in London, quite an astonishingly long way really. It was the best part of the day: gawping at newly painted front doors, reflecting on strange house names 'thiseldome' or 'dunshoppin', listening for a particular wooden wind chime and smelling the suburban dusty roses of June.
Nothing much has changed really, I'm taller and wider, and the houses are shuttered rather than curtained, but its the same fascination with how people decorate, display and fasten down their own small patch of the earth.