There is a route I sometimes take when walking the dog, and the footpath passes in front of three small houses, in a terrace, that are set aside from the rest of the street and look out over the playing field.

A much better vista than the rest of the street, I’d argue.

Probably quite annoying for the postman though, as he can do the whole street as normal, but then has to go the long way round just to get to these three houses.

Anyway, the house on the left is neat and tidy, with a gravel path and a small lawn that is always kept short.

The house on the right is immaculate. It always seems to be freshly painted and the doors and windows are always gleaming. The neat front lawn has a small cherry tree in the middle which is pruned regularly. The front hedge is cut with a laser, I’m sure, as it is not only neat and tidy, but the edges are cut at perfect right-angles and there is not a leaf or a twig out of place..

The house in the middle, however, is a bit of a state. The doors and windows look like they have never been cleaned and are black in places and the wooden window frames are rotten and really need replacing. Weeds grow and hang from the gutters and the pebble-dash facia is stained and cracked. The front garden grass has never been cut – well, not in the several years that I’ve been walking past it –  and in Summer, it reaches knee height and looks a mess where the foxes have run around in it. The small white picket fence at the front is broken and leans out into the path at a jaunty angle, threatening to snag the knees of passers-by.

It’s a mess.

I’ve always assumed that the property must be owned by an elderly person, who struggles with the physical and financial aspects of property maintenance.

But, yesterday I bumped into the lady who lives in the house on the right, as she was walking her dog on the playing field. We’ve spoken many times before, but this time I brought up the subject of the middle house and the way it stuck out like a dirty, sore thumb.

She rolled her eyes and and went on to moan about how it lowered the tone, etc.

“Is it an old person who lives there?” I asked.

“Good Lord, no!” she said. “He’s in his forties, I think.  He’s a solicitor and is doing quite well for himself, I’d say… judging by that flash Porsche he has parked out the back and all the fancy holidays he goes on.”

Different priorities, for different people, I suppose.