ain't 'bout how I get there

My scar is amazingly smooth now. There was a little rough piece at each end, one of which I snipped off a couple of days ago, the other came off this morning. I've been smearing goo on it every night, and had to check the mirror to find the unscabbed end last night! It's quite miraculous, or so it feels. And yesterday we walked up to Aldi together, shopped and returned without (boo!) a pause at the café, with me walking mostly independently and sans crutch, as Beast was towing our little cart.

On the way up the road, we went to a little local Close, because something had been delivered to us which appeared to belong there. Number 18, but in a Close instead of a Lane.

There was no #18 in that Close.

#11 was right next to #14—okay, it makes more sense if you know that in English streets, the numbering very often goes: odd numbers on one side, even numbers on t'other. And this was a Close, so they met. The builders had considerately decided not to have a #13. Anyway. The postman was obviously as baffled as we were, but we have re-posted the card with stern warnings on the front that (a) these people are not known at our house, and (b) there is no #18, XX Close. I wonder whether we will see it again.

Alas, the humungous pile of ironing awaits.