Gettin' outta Dodge

I live in Dodge.

Actually, I live on Battison Street in Bedford, England, but my husband often says, "We've got to get out of Dodge" and sometimes I think he's right. We are often kept awake at night by neighbors having drunken brawls, the scent of marijuana often wafts through the street, and the sight of men peeing against the wall opposite my house often greets me when I open the door.

But more often than not, I think he's wrong. I love being near the center of town, and I love that I know my neighbors, even if they are hooligans. I love the diversity: I have Asian, Polish, British, Italian, and American neighbors. The boys down the street know that if they hit the ball over our fence 20 times in one day, I'll let them in to fetch it every time, and they bring me roses as a sign of their appreciation. The lady across the road knows that if she needs milk on a Saturday morning for her tea, she can come ask us. The old man who lives down the road asks in broken English, "You alright? Children alright? Husband alright?" every time he sees me. The men who run the shop down the road pinch my children's cheeks and give them lollypops when we go in. The lady who runs the other shop noticed that I've lost weight. The couple that runs the Chinese restaurant brought Addien a gift when she was born and brought Cerys their hand-me-down clothes. My friend Abi lives two doors down, and we are in and out of each other's houses almost every day. So, while I don't particularly love the grittiness, I don't know where else I could find community like I have here on Battison Street.

But the house is on the market because hubby really doesn’t think he can take it anymore. So far all our potential buyers seem to think more like my husband than like me though, and they don’t want to live in Dodge either.