A summer holiday for the whole street? Count me out
Forty-nine residents of Coronation Avenue in Haverfordwest, Wales, have gone on holiday together. This is surely taking neighbourliness too far.
The award for most uplifting story of the week must surely go to the good people of Coronation Avenue in Haverfordwest, who like each other so much that they decided to go on holiday together.
Yes, 49 of them packed their bags for a week at the Mar Amantis hotel in Ibiza. “It was great fun… the only problem some of us had was sunburn and the occasional hangover,” said Paul John, the organiser.
“We live on Coronation Avenue but we are similar to Coronation Street in a way – we’ve certainly got a few characters.”
I couldn’t help thinking that if our street went on holiday together, such community spirit would be rather lacking…
Thursday: arrive at airport with cat (as the neighbours are coming, there’s no one to feed her). Someone snarls something about her weeing on their rhododendrons. Am disappointed to discover that the couple across the road have brought their baby with them. I was hoping for a holiday from its incessant crying. Strange woman comes over to say hello. Apparently, she lives in the flat two floors above me, but I’ve never seen her before.
Friday: when we got to the hotel last night, the family at No 10 complained that their room was smaller than the one allocated to the family at No 12, “which is just what we need after they got planning permission to build that monstrous extension that blocks out all the light in our garden”. Rumours abound that they got to the pool at 6am to bag the best sunloungers as payback. Hotel complaining that the cat has been spotted weeing on the palm trees.
Saturday: long lunch today. Started well, but someone mentioned “building down” and soon several people were arguing over who had the best basement conversion. This led to a fight about the dreadful noise No 17’s builders made, and by the way, could they stop putting their rubbish in No 19’s wheelie bin. Woman from flat two floors above me spent the evening droning on and on about what colour we should paint the shared hall. After a jug of sangria, we agreed on Jasmine White.
Sunday: didn’t get to sleep until about 5am, as the teenagers at No 15 have been put in the room next to me and the cat. They were up all night playing 50 Cent really loudly. This reminds me of the time their parents went away, half of Facebook descended for a party, and we found a teenage boy passed out in the bushes the next morning. I tell them to be quiet. “Bit rich coming from the woman who wails along to Beyoncé until the early hours,” they say.
“That’s the lady who lives two floors above me,” I mumble.
I can’t wait to get home and not speak to any of them again.