There is a knock at the door!!!
A man stands there, looking well-to-do. His Lexus is parked across the road. (I think it is a Lexus; I am not much good at modern cars).
“I’m looking for ‘Conifer Lodge,'” he announces, brusquely.
I stare at him, then shake my head.
“Sorry – that’s a new one on me.”
Now, Narcoleptic Dave’s cottage, where I’m currently staying, is small. That’s not meant to be disrespectful to Narcoleptic Dave, or indicate ingratitude for the kind use of this dwelling. It’s a mere factual description of this mean hovel in which I am forced to reside. Once part of a group of farmworkers’ cottages, it was taken over by the Church Commissioners last century, possibly as part of one of their charitable campaigns against battery farmworkers.
My point is, that the house is compact. Modest. Bijou, if you will.
In the front garden, there is a single rather forlorn tree. To call it a ‘dwarf conifer’ might be overstating the case. It is a dwarf dwarf conifer. A runt amongst firs. A treelet that, should I ever enter it in the Norfolk and District Bonsai Festival, would be subject to furtive and unpleasant pointing and sniggering.
“Conifer Lodge,” he repeats, making a point of looking very closely at my house. “It’s definitely in this road, and there aren’t that many houses.”
“Sorry – I really can’t help you.”
“Thanks anyway.” He retreats down the path, making sure to give one final accusatory look over his shoulder.