By Steven Moss
As we high-tailed our way out of the flats, my wife Veronica suggested a bungalow in the more retiring part of town. I pressed the address into the sat-nav as she drove.
Once we’d unpacked comfortably into our new conditions, we discovered ourselves half the average age. I bought beige slacks, wore a knitted diamond jumper while my wife complimented her outfits with a headscarf and sunglasses. We’d enough to rest between the sun-kissed, hedge-lined drives for a year or so, so we got busy being neighbourly.