May 3, 2004

The concrete is always greyer on the other side of the picket fence

I noticed [the children] had fallen quiet in the back of the car and had their noses pressed to the window, rapt. I was baffled as to what could have caught their attention; the quintessentially rural scenes I usually point out on journeys – fields of lambs, mallards and their ducklings and, thrillingly, the occasional dead badger – were glaringly absent from this estate of boxy newbuilds. Instead, there were children running around everywhere, bikes slung here and there, balls flying every which way and a cacophony of whoops and shouts. “Cool,” sighed my son. “Wicked,” concurred my daughter. “I wish we lived here.”

Judy Rumbold in Saturday’s Guardian.