Welcome

I spent Friday being White Van Woman in a Transit borrowed from Mr Guide Leader.

It made sense to ferry boxes and small stuff from the old house to the new on my day off, so that we could just get on with the big things on Saturday when there were helpers.

I arrived in the cul de sac where the new house is situated, to be greeted by another transit van with a mattress aboard. The Van Men despatched the mattress to my bedroom and one of them handed me a bottle of Rosé. ‘Welcome to Friendly Drive, we live on the corner.' How thoughtful.

A little later Scurrying Woman from opposite came over with an effusive welcome and a wide smile.

Then flowers arrived.

And cards.

And pink champagne (well, sparkling Rosé).

What is the sudden infatuation with Rosé? It's everywhere. Blush bottles line the shelves of the local Co-Op and the Local Pub has at least 3 varieties on offer. Mateus must be sitting smugly at home now watching the New World Cab Savs gathering dust, preparing to follow Blue Nun into viticular obscurity.

Anyway. Just when I'd started to develop a suspicion that I'd moved into Stepford and was checking the Transit for a glazed-eyed Duck clone clutching a bottle of Echo Falls, Next Door appeared.

He seemed eager to come in and emphasise just how welcome I was, as if the flowers and card he was bearing weren't clue enough. 'We had champagne last night, in anticipation' - he started.

By now, I'm slightly worried that White Zinfandel isn't the only fluid neighbours exchange on Friendly Drive, and sniff the air for traces of leather, chocolate body paint and cheese fondue.

'We still can't believe that the Neighbours From Hell have finally gone' - he continued.

My self-esteem crashed through the floor. The welcome committee had nothing to do with me personally, but was more of a leaving do for the previous inhabitants.

Tales of contemptuously-discarded cigarette butts, late night parties, dumped leaf sweepings and excessive and persistant staring filled me with horror.

And then I started to feel something more akin to delight.

If the bar had been set so low by the previous occupants, what dangerous excesses of mine might now be tolerated? I plot a new life of devilment and debauchery, safe in the knowledge that there will always be a welcome and a bottle of Blossom Hill Blush on Friendly Drive.