When the residents of Black Prince Road went to bed on Tuesday, it wasn’t there; when they woke on Wednesday, it very much was. A turreted building lousy with gargoyles, there hardly seemed space between the Williams’ east wall and the Parkhouses’ west – and yet.
There was a crocodile in the garden, and a sign on the gate asking the postman to beware, but he paid no heed and was badly bitten around the ankles. But he had to go back. The post kept coming, sackful after sackful, until it spilled from the spindly chimneys – and still the letters came.