I moved.
My new neighbourhood is very posh. Thanks to My New Baby, Bebe (see earlier posts), I've only ridden public transport once on the commute to work (puncture). I felt like apologizing to everyone else on the train as I got off at my stop. I definitely felt a bit embarrassed. I feel like a bit of a fraud wandering round my new neighbourhood, it must be said.
Things are different in my new neighbourhood, in my new house and my new room. I've now got so much bed and duvet I don't know what to do with it all. Acres and acres.
My new neighbourhood is at the top of a hill that would look over the rest of London if it wasn't so sheltered by all the trees and the leaves.
The weekend I moved in, I saw a busker with an oboe and a soft-top classic car roll by. An oboe.
Even the street signs look posher.
The website for the neighborhood association (we have one of them too) lists a plumber, electrician, piano tuner. They also organise a picnic, presumably when everyone shows up and eats sandwiches and cake and feels smug together for living in such a Nice Neighbourhood.
