Everybody needs good neighbours – and luckily my new one is Alex. Looking back, this was where the real magic began. I can almost see his front door from mine if I strain my neck. He’s at number 60 and I’m at number 7. Who would have thought that being 58 doors apart from each other would be the winning formula? I often show Lola and Liberty his old front door like it’s a landmark – along with the place we used to feed horses under the Westway flyover. There’s a posh village-like cafe with a dry-cleaning shop between us. Alex says the food is too salty in the cafe – but he’s always sitting outside it having a massive fry-up.
I obviously needed a valid reason to be walking up and down my road when I see him – in those days I had no dog. The trouble is there is no dry cleaning to dig out – I don’t have that sort of wardrobe. I take all my coats one by one – sometimes even turning back if he isn’t around because it is a wasted trip. He must have been looking out for me too: he slams on the breaks and pulls over when he spots me.
