Another Bunch of Ferals on the Hill

Since moving here I've got really tired of the "yes we'd heard about you..."
I thought the old home-town was nosy but these people have a very personal stake in whether you're a nice family or ‘another bunch of ferals on the hill’ as one elderly neighbour so eloquently put it.
Since moving here - and let's face it, I'm not adverse to a little chat with potential friends and preferred strangers - in the first four weeks I heard about someone whose daughter was killed by a mad gunman, another woman who was depressed about her mother's death four years ago, the ills of the Liberal Party of course (and every other party seeing as how elections are coming up) and how those young 'deadbeats' on the main street steal anything that's not tied down and isn't it a shame about youth today and on and on and on and oh my God!
Why don't they just go back to the tried and true gossip about who's rooting who?
I've come to the conclusion that they're all too old for the Rumpity Bump and the next best thing to talk about is Church Schisms (and trust me - there are some, I heard aaaalll about them!)

Three old men have shown up at my gate at different times in the first month to offer advice, welcome and a trailerload of cow poo for the garden.
One wanted a lift up to the old home-town next time I went for work because he's going to visit his daughter so that he can drive down with her because he “doesn't like the idea of her driving alone, anyone could stop the car and just get in with her and the kids”.
Like the ‘anyone’ who could find you from a third-hand description and hit you up for a lift four hours away?
I stood at the gate, each time, with my hand on The Dog's collar and the big softie obliged me by growling.
And then they all looked hurt that I didn't invite them in for coffee.
Small-town hospitality or Snowtown bank murderers - you be the judge.