Nothing much happens on my street.

It may be the dullest

street in town. If my street was lettuce, it’d be iceberg. If my
street was clothing, it’d be a polar-fleece vest. If my street was a
song, it’d be Hall & Oates' I Can't Go For That (No Can
Do), played on SmoothFM, introduced by Richard Wilkins. 

  
There are no neighbourly disputes on my street: sure the guy
across the road mows his nature strip a little early on a Sunday
morning and I always think I should say something, but then I
remember that I’m whipper-snippering my nature strip at the
same time, so we just wave at each other and carry on. 
There are no wild parties on my street: the people who live
behind me sometimes play their Brasil ’66 albums a little loud
on a Saturday night but technically that’s the next street.
They’re animals on that street, I won’t even walk down it at
night. There are no dramatic incidents on my street. One time
someone parked their car and left their headlights on, and all us
neighbours formed a posse to find the driver, door-knocking on
doors, getting jumper-leads ready for an emergency jump-start.
But then the driver showed up and drove off. So we put our
jumper leads away, went back into our homes, and wrote about
it in our journals. Big day. One for the ages. 
Friends tell me about their exciting streets: they talk about
divorces and robberies and even a murder – and I think wow,
so jealous, wish we could have a bit of that street action, down
the other end of the street, so our end could gossip about it.
How good would that be? 
  
But it’s never going to happen on my iceberg-lettuce/polar-
fleece/Hall & Oates street. Or so I thought. On Sunday night,
for a few brief hours, my street went radicchio-lettuce/leather-
gimp suit/Cannibal Corpse singing Meat Hook
Sodomy berserko. 
9pm: I was home watching a TV doco, because that’s what my
street does on Sunday nights (we may be dull but we know
plenty about art, nature and continental railway journeys). And
then CRRRRRNNNKKKKKK, there was a horrible grinding
noise outside, and I thought, hmmm, the guy across the road is
starting up his lawn-mower a bit late, but when you’ve gotta
mow, you’ve gotta mow. Then I heard lots of commotion so I
ran out in my trakkies and uggies, and all my neighbours were
gathered on the street, also wearing trakkies and uggies ( it’s
our street uniform, we buy in bulk). 
A car had knocked down a power pole. The driver was trapped
inside. Live electricity wires were on the ground. We didn’t
know what to do: some of us froze in shock, others called Triple
Zero, one guy ran off to get jumper leads, just out of habit.
Police cars came, then fire engines, ambulances, emergency
vehicles. The street was cordoned off, the power was shut down,
the driver was rescued – and we all stood in a huddle, watching
the drama unfold, mumbling to each other, “I heard the driver
was drunk!”/ “I heard the driver was on his phone!”/ “I heard
the driver was from the next street! They’re a pack of animals
over there! Animals!” 
For a brief few hours, my street was the most exciting street in
town and it was all too much for me. I went back into my
blacked-out home and sat in the dark, feeling cold and
powerless, waiting for the nice comfortable dullness to return.