You would think that living in a scheme for older people in a small English villiage would be an idyllic way to spend your twilight years, but no, it is like living in a goldfish bowl.
Being in a place where nothing much happens, except for coffee morning on Tuesday and bingo on Wednesday, means that minding your own business is non existent.
I have just been accused of having a “new man” because I was seen going out at 8.30am on Sunday morning and did not return until 8.30pm. This obviously means that I am up to no good.
Stupidly, instead of just saying “mind your own business”, I accounted for my whereabouts. (I was visiting my mother at her care home then visiting my two sons and their families.)
I thought things were bad here because I live opposite the nosiest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, but this is a whole new level of intrusion.
Because of the dreadful Scottish holiday my ex-beau and I parted company, amicably I thought, but it appears not to be so.
He has told everyone here that we are no longer an item and seems to have recruited the other inmates to keep him informed of my comings and goings.
Maybe I should give everyone a notebook and pencil so they can keep notes or maybe I should tell them all to mind their own f***ing business.
J
Knitter Press 