My husband has started a new job in London, which has fuelled my parents' argument that we should move back to their corner of the urban sprawl.
It so happens my husband's car journey (M23, M25 and A2) virtually takes him past their back garden. If we lived in their road, he could be home within 20 minutes instead of the hour and 20 minutes it takes to get back to Brighton.
The issue arose last weekend as we relaxed in the sunshine at their house (my childhood home) in Crayford. I've mentioned Crayford before but if you don't remember, I'm not the least bit surprised. The town went rapidly downhill after the Romans and has been a cultural wilderness ever since. Like most of south east London, its main features are a six-lane traffic system, a parade of shabby shops and a drive-through McDonald's.
My parents live at the better end of town and probably have the nicest house in Crayford but the competition is hardly fierce.
Having again reminded me that a housing estate is to be built on their doorstep, my dad suggested we take a walk past the site. He seemed keen to refresh me on the scenic pleasures of the area.
My husband declined (he was brought up in Devon, and Crayford makes him nauseous), so my dad, my mum and my toddler Eve set off.
We walked up the road, past the recycling point and took a left down towards the local tip - soon to be little redbrick units - and some dodgy-
looking builders' compounds patrolled by guard dogs. My dad strolled on, pushing Eve's buggy, while my mum and I began to feel this wasn't such a good idea.
"Let's go this way," said my dad, pointing to an overgrown pathway running adjacent to the A2.
"Let's go back," said my mum.
"This'll be fine," said my dad. "We'll get to Hall Place if we continue."
Hall Place is the only part of Crayford worth seeing. It's a medieval house now owned by the local council and has attractive, landscaped gardens. It pre-dates other nearby buildings by at least 500 years and the locals often marvel at its "very, very old doors".
My dad was right. The path actually took us on to the A2, across a railway line and down a treacherous bank strewn with the things motorists discard (bras, socks, reams of toilet roll) until we found a hole in the fence.
"There," said my dad, as we emerged, blinking, on to the sunny, clipped lawns, like fugitives from somewhere dark and dangerous.
Hall Place was as attractive as I remembered it to be. After sniffing the roses, we went inside the building to see if there was anything interesting to look at - some local art or historical find?
A large glass cabinet was filled with porcelain objects, jewellery and watches.
"It's all the work of one person," said the man looking after the exhibition.
"Really?" I said in disbelief.
"Yep," said the man, "it's taken us years to catch him."
It was the police display of stolen goods. How could I have expected anything different?
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