ENTRY THIRTY EIGHT - THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE

Does having a communal garden make neighbours friendlier? This question has occupied my thoughts since moving to our new place in Teddington which has a lovely shared garden. From the outset we have been bowled over by the friendliness of the other residents of our ‘Court’, a seventies block that houses eight separate flats. On moving day we made the acquaintance of Fred and Joan, a spritely older couple who immediately introduced themselves and went out of their way to offer assistance. Several cups of tea later we are already at the stage of borrowing hoovers and taking in each others washing from the line when rain threatens. They cast an indulgent eye over Felix who plays happily in the garden while I prepare lunch, offering welcome advice on local playgrounds, schools and cycle routes. All in under a week.

As a Londoner born and bred I have found such openness startling. Imagine my surprise when the lady who lives above us appeared wielding a garden table and chairs when we were sat out on a balmy evening having a humble barbeque. ‘Thought you might like to use these’, she said, noting our camp chairs and distinct lack of table; ‘They’re communal’. The Oxford English Dictionary defines communal as something ‘shared by all members of a community; for common use’. What fascinates me is the implication that the act of sharing something fosters a sense of community between those who use it, and in my short and very pleasant experience I have found this to be very true. The garden is a space for all; even the bins and washing lines are shared, forcing us together for the acts that make up daily life, and I love it.

In the garden are two wonderful old oak trees which offer a delightfully dappled light all day long. Bluebells cluster at the base of the trunks and around the perimeters of the lawn, while blackbirds, blue tits, sparrows, starlings, magpies and squirrels skip from branch to branch, making me feel like I’m living in an episode of Springwatch. One night I listened as a nightingale gave voice to its song, transfixed by the bewitching beauty of the melody. On fine days I sit Felix at the communal table for lunch, an

experience that I can only describe as sublime. No worrying about dropped crumbs, no wiping and no mess, only the pleasant rustling of leaves and the certainty that eating al fresco must be close to heaven. And oh, the evenings! No longer are we trapped indoors whilst others enjoy summer nights; as soon as Felix goes to bed out comes the barbeque and the camp chairs and we appoint ourselves in our favourite spot with a beer or cider to hand while our dinner chargrills over the coals, the fragrant smoke wafting over our clothes and into our hair so that as I drift off to sleep I am surrounded by the evocative scents of a campfire. I have started to feel like I am on a permanent holiday, what with Felix happily installed in his own room and space aplenty to roam, not to mention the much longed for delights of lying in bed and reading before sleeping more soundly than I have in a long time.

As I board the train at Teddington train bound for Waterloo on my way to work we pass through what feels like miles of woodland.  Trees and greens are everywhere, at the delightfully named Strawberry Hill, Twickenham, St Margaret’s and Richmond, then the two stations at Barnes, all abound with nature, and it is only as we pass through Putney into the markedly more urban environs of Wandsworth Town that I even feel I am in London. It is like going from the village to the town, and when it is time to retrace the route it is with a deep sense of satisfaction that I roll back into Teddington; a (nearly) country mouse come home to roost.