Exercise to write about a row of houses and who occupied them.
“A superb and well-presented mid terrace Victorian family house in the stucco townhouse design located in the heart of the ‘Pimlico grid’,” read the Estate Agent blurb.
Meg stood on the other side of the road and stared past the parked conga line of silver BMWs at the perfect formation of neat houses opposite her. At first glance it was a row of clones: all five storeys, all white stucco up to the top of the ground floor, then traditional brick to the roof. Black iron railings marked the borders and served to keep out the riff raff, and three beautifully tiled steps lead up to each large black front door with its elaborate door knocker.
They reminded her of the house that the Browns had owned in Paddington Bear and she was hoping that one of the doors would open and Paddington himself would step out. A slightly more detailed inspection showed they weren’t all identical. Number thirty didn’t have the intricate black and white diamond design tiles on its steps. Its tiles were terracotta and it was all the worse for it. It also had a bright yellow box advertising that it had an elaborate alarm system. There was an old style shopper bicycle chained to the railings and a series of tiny lit buttons next to the front door indicated that this building had been turned into flats. This had happened to many buildings like this one in London and Meg felt something of the history of the house was lost when this happened. It was somehow breaking the pattern of the families that had lived there, of the children that had slid down its bannisters, or in the case of the Victorians had been shut out of sight in the nursery.
Meg watched as a mother in her mid-thirties reversed up the steps from the basement level, carefully negotiating a pushchair up every step. Two thin white legs were visible from the latest in designer pushchairs and they swung in time to the bumpy motion. Once at the top, the mother fussed around the child, checking it was properly strapped in, and the child swatted her away impatiently. She straightened her jacket and checked her bag for her phone and keys before setting off down the street towards the Thames.
As Meg was musing on what that first Victorian family would think if they were to come back and see their servants’ quarters was now home to a young family, the door of number 34 opened. Out came an older man, most likely in his sixties. His head was almost bald and what hair remained was short and white. He had one arm in a beige trench coat, whilst the other clutched a battered briefcase, and he pirouetted on the top step as he checked his pockets and then double checked the door was locked before marching off at high speed in the direction of the nearest tube station. Number thirty four had very neat window boxes, Meg noticed.
There was more action from number thirty as the main door opened and then slammed shut again which instantly grabbed Meg’s attention. Two long minutes later the large shiny black door opened and a spindly figure in a fitted black t-shirt, tight black jeans and sunglasses emerged, looking very shifty as he checked up and down the pavement numerous times before he committed his black pointy boots to it. He had barely made three strides before Meg heard the clicking of a camera as someone appeared from the basement of the house behind her. Once the spindly figure was out of sight the photographer started checking his digital trophies until he suddenly became aware of Meg watching him.
“Pop star,” he said in a thick East End accent, nodding in the direction of where Mr Spindly had headed. “Says he’s one hundred percent faithful to his pregnant girlfriend. These say otherwise,” he added with an over dramatic wink. He pulled out his mobile and walked off as he started to shout into it.
Meg turned her attention back to the houses. She wondered what stories each could tell, what happiness and despair they had witnessed. Number thirty was busier than Piccadilly Circus as the door opened again and a very pregnant young woman quickly exited and almost trotted down the steps and across the road despite her obvious additional stowage. She was speaking quietly into her mobile as she past Meg and she was smiling.
“Yeah, he totally papped you, Babe. Call me when the exclusives come in from the glossies…” and she was out of earshot.
Something made Meg drag her attention back to the other side of the road: someone was coming out of number thirty two. Meg stared as Paddington Bear reversed out of the large front door and pulled it shut using the letter box. At least she thought it could be Paddington, the blue duffle coat was spot on. The hat wasn’t quite right though, it was black but it wasn’t of the floppy felt variety, it was more of the old lady upturned flower pot variety. The duffle coated figure turned round and locked eyes on Meg immediately and they stood for a while just taking each other in. The person in Paddington’s coat held on tightly to the railings and took great care in stepping down each monochrome step until both neatly laced feet were on the pavement. Meg took a deep breath and crossed the road. As she reached the duffle coated figure she handed it the Estate Agent details.
“Grandmamma, when were you going to tell us that you were selling up?”
“A superb and well-presented mid terrace Victorian family house in the stucco townhouse design located in the heart of the ‘Pimlico grid’,” read the Estate Agent blurb.
Meg stood on the other side of the road and stared past the parked conga line of silver BMWs at the perfect formation of neat houses opposite her. At first glance it was a row of clones: all five storeys, all white stucco up to the top of the ground floor, then traditional brick to the roof. Black iron railings marked the borders and served to keep out the riff raff, and three beautifully tiled steps lead up to each large black front door with its elaborate door knocker.
They reminded her of the house that the Browns had owned in Paddington Bear and she was hoping that one of the doors would open and Paddington himself would step out. A slightly more detailed inspection showed they weren’t all identical. Number thirty didn’t have the intricate black and white diamond design tiles on its steps. Its tiles were terracotta and it was all the worse for it. It also had a bright yellow box advertising that it had an elaborate alarm system. There was an old style shopper bicycle chained to the railings and a series of tiny lit buttons next to the front door indicated that this building had been turned into flats. This had happened to many buildings like this one in London and Meg felt something of the history of the house was lost when this happened. It was somehow breaking the pattern of the families that had lived there, of the children that had slid down its bannisters, or in the case of the Victorians had been shut out of sight in the nursery.
Meg watched as a mother in her mid-thirties reversed up the steps from the basement level, carefully negotiating a pushchair up every step. Two thin white legs were visible from the latest in designer pushchairs and they swung in time to the bumpy motion. Once at the top, the mother fussed around the child, checking it was properly strapped in, and the child swatted her away impatiently. She straightened her jacket and checked her bag for her phone and keys before setting off down the street towards the Thames.
As Meg was musing on what that first Victorian family would think if they were to come back and see their servants’ quarters was now home to a young family, the door of number 34 opened. Out came an older man, most likely in his sixties. His head was almost bald and what hair remained was short and white. He had one arm in a beige trench coat, whilst the other clutched a battered briefcase, and he pirouetted on the top step as he checked his pockets and then double checked the door was locked before marching off at high speed in the direction of the nearest tube station. Number thirty four had very neat window boxes, Meg noticed.
There was more action from number thirty as the main door opened and then slammed shut again which instantly grabbed Meg’s attention. Two long minutes later the large shiny black door opened and a spindly figure in a fitted black t-shirt, tight black jeans and sunglasses emerged, looking very shifty as he checked up and down the pavement numerous times before he committed his black pointy boots to it. He had barely made three strides before Meg heard the clicking of a camera as someone appeared from the basement of the house behind her. Once the spindly figure was out of sight the photographer started checking his digital trophies until he suddenly became aware of Meg watching him.
“Pop star,” he said in a thick East End accent, nodding in the direction of where Mr Spindly had headed. “Says he’s one hundred percent faithful to his pregnant girlfriend. These say otherwise,” he added with an over dramatic wink. He pulled out his mobile and walked off as he started to shout into it.
Meg turned her attention back to the houses. She wondered what stories each could tell, what happiness and despair they had witnessed. Number thirty was busier than Piccadilly Circus as the door opened again and a very pregnant young woman quickly exited and almost trotted down the steps and across the road despite her obvious additional stowage. She was speaking quietly into her mobile as she past Meg and she was smiling.
“Yeah, he totally papped you, Babe. Call me when the exclusives come in from the glossies…” and she was out of earshot.
Something made Meg drag her attention back to the other side of the road: someone was coming out of number thirty two. Meg stared as Paddington Bear reversed out of the large front door and pulled it shut using the letter box. At least she thought it could be Paddington, the blue duffle coat was spot on. The hat wasn’t quite right though, it was black but it wasn’t of the floppy felt variety, it was more of the old lady upturned flower pot variety. The duffle coated figure turned round and locked eyes on Meg immediately and they stood for a while just taking each other in. The person in Paddington’s coat held on tightly to the railings and took great care in stepping down each monochrome step until both neatly laced feet were on the pavement. Meg took a deep breath and crossed the road. As she reached the duffle coated figure she handed it the Estate Agent details.
“Grandmamma, when were you going to tell us that you were selling up?”