Nosey Parker

By now, I am used to the errant email or text that promises me riches from Nigeria or guarantees shares in Russia’s energy giant Gas-Prom, which cites FIPP’s Blatter as being fully on board. My eyes glaze over these messages as if they are burnt toast. But when another errant message advises the neighborhood to check the roofs of garden tool sheds for bodies falling from the sky, I take notice.

Somehow, a neighborhood watch group in West London got wind that I was British by birth and was in fact born within spitting distance of message central. I understand that there has been a particularly vigorous outreach, sponsored by Guinness with an assist from Ancestry.com, data mining and Snowden scraps not published by the Guardian newspaper, to recreate a social version of the British Empire. All this effort is to honor the 800th anniversary of the signing of the Magna Carta. My British friends tell me that the joke making the rounds is that the British Tourist Authority is trying to re-create the British Empire, one disenchanted limey at a time.

Despite their good work, bodies are still falling from the sky. My neighborhood watchers are apparently right in the path of planes flying in from sub-Sahara Africa. Heathrow Airport police have confirmed that at least four young African males have been found alive in the landing gear of recent flights. Five others have been found deceased on the roofs of houses and garden sheds along the flight path. Authorities suggest that these stowaways were disgorged when the landing gear was lowered.

So the neighborhood watch encourages us in martial language to check garden sheds, rooftops and chimney pots for signs of the poor souls who might have been disgorged. Without any shift in tone or urgency, the very next newsletter encourages us to check our garden sheds for missing tools, potting soil, and bicycle chains. The editor informs us that in the last month one crossbow, two hatchets and a divining rod have been reported stolen. He reminds us that catalytic converters flush with precious metals are the new hot prize for neighborhood thieves.

Don’t forget to tell your neighbors about phone scams and reports of rakish clowns pestering our children. Aren’t you going a little too far? asks Clarence of Montpellier Row, becoming British stiff in the jaw. Don’t you worry about getting the wind up our elderly neighbors who as you know are already halfway to Sunday?

The editor, sensing that he is on a metaphorical roll, concludes with a paean to the least among us, the small creature that walked the earth with the dinosaurs twenty million years ago and now is being murdered under our noses to the point of extinction. I am referring to the lowly, unbelievably cute garden hedgehog. All you have to do is to drill a small hole in garden walls to allow them to roam safely, provide fresh water, and sing an occasional verse of “There’ll Always Be an England.” Don’t forget that the hedgehog is the best defense against a growing slug population.

Hedgehogs needs tunnel paths and garden walks for these animals to get their daily constitutionals and socialize. And to escape! Who can forget last summer’s hedgehog that was rearing her five babies under the community lavender tree when they were savagely murdered by Mr. Fox?

And don’t get me started on Mr. Fox. The foxes have been very busy lately feeding on oranges and tea bags because some of our neighbors have neglected to lock down the handles on food waste bins.

We will end this edition on a sad note. Just in: Maggots have been known to eat baby hedgehogs or hoglets alive. Be vigilant!

And please don’t share this news with the children.