And on Sunday afternoon I played Sunday Morning, by The Velvet Underground for Ding Dong Daddy.
Without his speakers, I’d be silent, so if it was you driving by with a face as long as a fiddle, it’s his fault.
I’ve come up with a new phrase if you do something wrong but don’t intend to upset anyone.
You have to flit around, singing ‘I’m so Priti’, oblivious to the hurt you’ve caused other people. And the phrase ‘You’re so Priti’ can be aimed at you as some kind of fan worship, in the same way as the advertising slogan ‘You’re so Money Supermarket’.
I think it might just catch on.
Today, as The Sound of Music theme tune blasted out at one o’clock, Mrs Remington and Mrs Lets-Get-Busy came running down the street, arms outstretched like modern-day Marias.
Mickey Murphy stood on the corner, waiting for his takeaway Sunday roast to be dished up at the pub. Bubbles, Mrs Bancroft, Mr Putter and The Fragrant Mrs Putter went off up the road to get a takeaway roast from the local restaurant and the little girl and her mum did a twirl outside the phone box.
As cyclists stopped to take in the atmosphere and walkers parked their car in the Square before putting on sensible shoes and heading for Bluebell Hill, the tinkly bells of The Velvet Underground faded into the distance and it became just another normal lockdown Sunday again.
Love, Maddie x