DiEd & Gone to Portchester

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Before moving to Pompey we lived in the picter skew hamlet of Stoke Charity, 7 miles outside Winchester.

However we moved - partly because our landlords were uselesss (Cluttons, absolutely pants!), partly because
the house was falling around our ears, and partly because of the isolation and the extreme difficulty we had in integrating with a population
consisting of wanabe posh noveu riche stuck up snobs, and more down to earth locals who werent
interested unless we were also locals.

One of the last straws was when someone bought the large house backing onto ours and then proceded to build a stonking
great green house as far away from his house as possible, but odly enough right at the bottom of our garden, blocking our view.  
We had angle grinding going on till 11pm, digging machinery going into the evenings and over the weekend, and a massive dog
that kept crapping in our garden.

We know why now.  Mr James Feckin Martin!  The TV excuse for a chef, tarting up his garden so he can nick Hugh Fearnley Whitingstalls
and Rick Steins ideas shamlesly, and piss off his neighbours in the process.

We were lucky, we could move.  Other more elderly neighbours didnt have the choice and were even more blighted by Mr Martins
selfish building.

Wanker.