Everybody Needs Good Neighbours…

I’ve been at my new flat for a year and a half now (so I guess I should stop calling it the “new flat”) – but even so – I still remember the neighbours at my mum’s place.

The girl downstairs was a fat lazy cow, who had a quaint habit of saying “fucking” between every other word in the sentences she spoke. I didn’t know her socially; I only know this trait of hers because she was very loud. She had one of those lovely ornamental gardens – the ones that have a rusty washing machine and an old mattress instead of a water feature. At the risk of sounding like a Daily Mail reader, I will also mention that she had 3 children by 3 different fathers. She usually interacted with her children by screaming “you fuckinggggg cunts” at them. She was the same age as me.

When I moved to my current abode, it was a relief – the place is nice and my new neighbours are quiet and friendly and liberal.

I’d always considered myself a liberal before, but now I’m not so sure. In fact, on some days I’m practically a Nazi. The only problem I have with my new neighbours – is that they are liberal because they can afford to be. They have comfortable lifestyles, and have never had to live in rough areas, or to struggle to pay the bills. They have wishy-washy creative jobs – artists, authors etcetera and they don’t have to do the 9-6 slog like other people. When I go out in the mornings they are still pottering about in their dressing gowns and doing yoga.

To some extent I have become like the neighbour who lived downstairs from my mum, albeit with different tastes – with my loud ska music, watching video nasties and David Lynch films at 3:00 in the morning. I like to think if they complained about the racket I’d shout back “fuck off, I’m tattooing my feet!“. Or something.

My mum used to have liberal neighbours next door to her. They were lesbians and I actually liked them (without falling in love with them, as I tend to do with lesbians). Sometimes they would wear caftans and burn incense, at other times they would do some bricklaying in the garden.

One of them – and I swear I’m not making this up – was called Anally. Not Annerlie, or Hannerly – but Anally. And she was hot.

One day she knocked at the door and asked if she could get a jump start from my car. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car (or indeed, even a license), but I did like the fact that she assumed I would own a motor. I wanted to ask her in for coffee, but I knew I could never keep a straight face if I had to say “Would you like some coffee, Anally?

Another time she knocked at the door and asked if I could open a jar for her. This caused a commotion in their household (probably as she’s asked a man for help). Soon after we could hear them shouting at each other and breaking crockery (they weren’t Greek or anything).

Why did you cause trouble in the House of Gash again?” said my mum.

(Actually she didn’t – I made that bit up)

My cat used to be brutally rude to the lesbians, as only a cat can be. When they used to clomp up the communal stairs my nosy cat would go out on the landing to stare at them. (My cat could hear them on the stairs because they were very heavy-footed. I’m not saying they wore bovver boots or anything, but they were lesbians after all). They would then stroke and generally make a fuss of her, and my cat would just stand there and accept all their affections, before saying “Look at you, you pair of lesbians – you’re going to hell“.

She would then come back in and announce “I just got stroked by a dyke. I’m hungry. Feed me now.

Etcetera.

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