The pavement in front of me is blocked by a group of five grey-haired sexagenarians. They are crowded round number 138 bearing cameras. The '8' has come loose and is hanging at an angle. 'Is this an important house?' I ask, waiting for them to clear a way. 'We used to live here in the sixties', says a bald man with a round face and glasses, 'when we were students'. He looks pleased. A woman with sensibly cut hair and a bright blue rain-jacket asks if I live here. I tell them I live at number 96. 'We haven't come down specially for this', she says hurriedly.
I explain my resolution. The bald man who has a short but upright posture offers his straight-away. The woman in the blue rain-jacket adds hers more sheepishly afterwards.
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