Neighbours

I’ve just received a post card from one of neighbours who are touring Canada telling me all about their trip. It’s odd really because I hardly know them and I guess it’s a bit like Miles and the girl upstairs, he may be “officially banging” her, but I bet he doesn’t know her name. In many ways, the relationships you have with your neighbours can be the closest you’ll ever have. Looking back, I can see that unlike Miles who clearly gets to know his neighbours very well, I have had a string of failed ex-neighbour relationships.

My first neighbour was called Biddy and she was 82 and lived below me in a converted house in Hammersmith. I thought I could turn her into a techno fan if I played State 808 at full blast night and day. Then one day I realised I hadn’t seen Biddy for a couple of days and had to break her door down, only to discover her on the floor, having had a stroke. I still feel quite ashamed when I think of her son thanking me for going to her rescue as we’d had a rather noisy party two days before.

Then there were the Scots couple who again lived below me, this time in Kensal Rise. They would come home in the early hours of the morning and start plonking away on their piano, screeching out Scottish folk songs. After several months of this I considered my options. Do I go down and ask them to tone things down, no. Do I go and kick their door down, no. Do I call the police, yes. to tell them I was concerned for the safety of the woman living below after hearing screams, which was technically true. I was very impressed when the police promptly arrived and made a no nonsense entry into the flat, only to discover two pissed Scots getting stoned whilst trying to play the piano. Needless to say they were promptly arrested, problem solved, we never exchanged Christmas cards or spoke again.

My last London neighbours were also Celtic in their origins, she was a fair skinned Catholic girl from County Cork and he was a tattooed Orangeman from a scheme on the outskirt of Glasgow, an odd mix if there ever was one. I was leading a dodgy existence at the time and my own Psychopathic Orangeman came in handy and his services was free of charge and things worked well. Until I returned home one evening to find a trail of blood, leading from my front door to where he had stabbed his wife next door. I tell no lies. I’m glad to report that she survived and decided not to press charges and I understaned that they both went off to Cork to live happily ever after.

Now life is quite different, my house is detached so I can make as much noise as I like without killing the neighbours. I have learnt to maintain a social distance for most of the year. I now only welcome my neighbours into my home twice a year in order to feed my pets, water my plants and to act as a general burglar deterrent while I am away. I accept that a certain amount of nosing around will go on and this can only be expected, it’s a bit like payment in kind for their service, so I always hide the hoist and the po*n.

Post cards are the thin end of the wedge, before you know it will be Christmas cards and the thought of banging an aging and toothless Bev next door doesn’t bare thinking about.

Nathan