Visitors

Upon moving out into the countryside, the Four Little Seymours were warned that we might not get as many visitors popping in to see us as we did when we lived in Suburbia.
They were disappointed. They loved greeting their public. Especially when the visitors brought with them sweets. Or stickers. Or leftover cake. Or anything.
The Four Little Seymours did well out of their visitors. And it usually provided them with an excuse to get out of the job they had been allocated, or to not go to bed.
They’re sociable like that.
And so it came as a pleasant surprise that, actually, people did venture out into the sticks to see us. They’d come to view The Project – to take in all its retro, dilapidated glory, before the knackered old place underwent its transformation.
But we didn’t make it easy.
Poor Old Bungalow doesn’t have a number. Just a name, which was on the gate, but in teeny-weeny writing. This is hilarious, and highly unhelpful, as our guests would drive up and down the road numerous times before they were forced to ask themselves “Which is the worst house on the street?” and – bingo! In they’d come.
To make it all the more challenging, the front of the bungalow would undergo subtle changes every so often. One day, there was a porch. The next – poof! It was gone. The gates moved. A wall appeared. Flower beds apparated. The front door went missing.
Now, we are entering the serious stage. This bungalow is headed for a metamorphosis. And, unlike the previous changes, these are going to be hard core. Literally.
With a deep trench and a gang plank, our guests now not only have to see the changes, but if they want to come in to the house at all, they actually have to experience them. Yesterday, I had a big, grown-up man timidly declare that he didn’t like it, as he ventured across the pit to the door. But he did it all the same. The lure of a cuppa was too strong.

I have been particularly impressed by the Tesco Men. It was only when the delivery lorry arrived that I remembered the hurdle of the pit, and I expected to have to unload all of the shopping myself, before carrying it precariously, piece by piece, into the house.
That would have taken a while. But the brave Tesco chaps didn’t falter, and carried their large baskets inside as usual. They’re obviously trained over assault courses.
Others have been less brave. In a last minute, slightly vain attempt to make the Four Little Seymours smart-ish at a wedding tomorrow, I put in a Next order. And when the Courier Girl rounded the corner to drop off our stuff, she actually screamed when she saw the pit. She only regained her composure when she realised that I would take receipt of my goods on the safe side, and she wouldn’t have to run the gauntlet that is our back yard.
As for the Post Lady, well, I must admit to having some concerns. She, like Barry the Postman before her, has gone AWOL.
I can still remember her worried face when she discovered that we didn’t have a working letter box. Perhaps, now that the trench is in-situ, we have tipped her over the edge completely. Metaphorically speaking.

On the day the Magic Digger arrived to turn our garden into Vimy Ridge, we had a garden party. Big Seymour was hammering away with his pneumatic drill whilst the guests sipped their cava and ate their deluxe mini pork pies.
The Four Little Seymours played on, oblivious and immune to the chaos.
It remains to be seen whether those particular guests will venture back to our building site. Maybe we pushed it a little too far on that occasion.
But our friends are a brave bunch. And I suspect it will take a lot more than pits, rubble and noise to put them off visiting the home of the Four Little Seymours.
If they can find it, that is.