I’ve lived on the same street for most of my 24 and a half years.

And during that time very little has changed. Two thirds of the people who lived here when I was born are still here now.

Of the houses that have changed hands all but for of them have people living in them who moved in years ago and who I also know fairly well.

Our street was built-in the 60s and quite a few of the houses are still owned by the people who bought them as new builds. The house we live in has only two previous owners and my family have lived in it far longer than any one else. In a town that dates back to the Doomsday book it might not be that surprising in the grand scheme of things.

But in this day and age its a bit of a wonder. The average age of a resident in my town is mid sixties. People tend to move into the area as somewhere to retire by the sea.  Plenty of the large Victorian house have been turned into retirement flats. And none of them are ever empty for long. Even during the worse of the latest recession the flats where changing hands in a matter of weeks or months.

All that aside it suddenly struck me the other day that the people I grow up around or old. Not just in age, as they have always seemed old to me considering most of them are at least fifty years older than me,. But, old in the way they talk and act.

The fella across the street who as me and the few other kids on the street chased us off his garden after a ball landed there, is suddenly hobbling around on a cane, un able to mow his small patch of lawn in one go without having to take a break half way through.

The woman next door who is the noisiest woman you would ever meet, is now in her seventies and spends her days tending the small garden in front of her house watching the world go by. She only retired from her job six years ago, but even then she only worked at the garden center behind our houses.

I’m ashamed to say that if I see her outside her house if I can I pt off leaving the house till she’s gone back indoors. Shes a lovely woman but she will talk the hind legs off a donkey when she gets going.

One night the other week my father and I where coming home late after doing a weekly shop. she was walking the street looking for a missing cat. She stopped me to ask if I had seen the cat and an hour later I was still outside in the cold talking to her. Even though I and made attempts to get in and she said I should get in out of the cold.

My father who had put the entire shop away and made a snack thought it was funny that I was stuck talking to her and he had in his own words “dodged the built”.

Thankfully that cat turned up the next safe and sound, and most of the street have heard about it turning up at least three times since. As far as I am aware she doesn’t have any living family and so I try to be nice to her, but sometimes it’s just so damn hard to listen to the same handful of stories she has been telling for as long as I can remember.

At the bottom of our cul-de-sac is a couple who are the grandparents of someone I went to school with. I can neer remember their name just the name of their black labrador Bumper who’s been dead over ten years.

A few houses down lives someone who was one of the science technicians at the high school I attended. She retired the same year I left he school, but for the whole time I was there I had to make sure that I didn’t do anything to bad at school as I knew she would tell my mother before I had chance to get home. Even now when I see her she’ll remind me of something I did when at school and want to have a laugh over it. Mostly it’ll be over the company I kept at school. The way she tells it I had a different boyfriend every week or a group of boyfriends all at once.

At high school most of my mates where boys, none of us really fitted in with any of the other school clans so we tended to call our self the rejects and untill they demolished the old languages building we had a little sheltered corner we called rejects corner.

The whole time I was in high school I only had three boyfriends and those relationships never went ast kissing and hand holding. Quite innocent given what a lot of our peers where up to.

In my own house three of the family have moved out perminally. I tried to move out but well I ended up back after a gap of three years. My father is now nearly 61 and older than some of the neighbors where when I first came home from the hospital.

He’s now one of the old guys to the handful of kids who are living on the street now. The oldest of whom I can remember being brought home for the first time. At the grand old age of twenty-four that makes me feel old. She’s in  high school now and getting ready to choose her gcse options. I’ve watched her grow into a beautiful young woman who has the boys including my brother lusting after her, just waiting for her to become legal before they make a move.

Although they will have to go through her over protective 18-year-old half-brother who moved on to our street nearly four years before she was born. A handy play mate for my brother who at just a year older than him was more than happy to have a boy help balance out the play of two older sisters.

So thats the short story of my street growing older, and what it has meant. How over nearly quarter of a centuray it hasnt changed much. Any one from 25 years ago would reconise it as it is today and most of the people living on our street. All be it older and frailer then they where back then.

Hell even now I’m just an old person to the kids living on the street. Just another adult who might want to tell them they cant do something, or be quite or get the hell off the street. It doesnt bother my father or i if balls get kicked into the garden. The plants there have already survived twenty odd years of balls and worse hitting them. If they where going to die from that they would have done it years ago.

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