In a quiet town in England, there lived a woman named Margaret Whitmore. She considered herself quite the respectable sort—never married, no children to speak of, but she had her own tidy flat in a neat little building and a steady job as an accountant at a furniture factory. Life, she often reflected with satisfaction, had treated her fairly.
Margaret carried on this way, content and unbothered, until she reached the grand age of fifty. Oh, how she relished her orderly existence, especially when compared to the absolute circus that was her neighbours’ lives. There was something rather comforting in knowing she was the only sensible one in the building.
Take the woman down the hall—sixty if she was a day, yet traipsing about with *blue hair*, of all things! Tight jeans, figure-hugging dresses—honestly, it was enough to make Margaret tut into her tea. The village eccentric, clearly.
Then there was the third neighbour—a girl of twenty-one with a five-year-old daughter. Barely out of school herself when she’d had the child, no parents in sight, and—*gasp*—thick as thieves with the blue-haired pensioner! While the girl was out working, the old dear babysat. ‘Birds of a feather,’ Margaret mused. ‘Drawn to one another like magnets to a fridge. Meanwhile, proper folk like me? They avoid eye contact and mumble hello in the lift. Can’t blame them, really.’
And then there was *him*—a man in his thirties, arms and neck covered in tattoos. Margaret’s first glimpse of him had nearly sent her into a Victorian swoon. Who in their right mind walked around looking like a walking art exhibition? Clearly, he wasn’t the reading type—probably too busy seeking attention elsewhere.
Every evening, as she rode the lift with one or another of them, she’d return to her flat, smug in the knowledge that *she*, at least, lived properly. Occasionally, she’d regale her one friend over the phone with tales of ‘the tattooed bloke,’ ‘the young mother,’ and ‘the batty old lady with the hair.’ What else was there to talk about, really?
Then, one dreadful evening, everything changed.
Margaret had just left work in a foul mood—some discrepancy in the accounts, and naturally, the blame had landed squarely on her shoulders. Her head had been pounding all day, and as she trudged towards her building, her ears began ringing, her legs suddenly leaden. She barely made it to the bench by the entrance before collapsing onto it.
A light touch on her arm startled her. Blinking up, she found herself face-to-face with none other than the blue-haired menace herself.
‘You alright, love?’ the woman asked, brow furrowed.
‘My head,’ Margaret mumbled. ‘Dreadful pain.’
‘Right, come on—I’ll take you up to see George. You’ve gone all pale, you have.’
‘George?’ Margaret managed weakly.
‘Your neighbour! Lives on your floor. He’s a cardiologist, didn’t you know?’
Moments later, Margaret was staring in utter bewilderment as the tattooed man—*George*, apparently—checked her blood pressure, settled her onto his sofa, and handed her a pill. The throbbing in her skull eased almost instantly.
‘You ought to schedule a proper check-up,’ George said cheerfully. ‘Even lovely young ladies like yourself need to mind their pressure.’
Margaret flushed, suddenly mortified by all the times she’d called him ‘that inked-up layabout’ to her friend. And yet here he was—*a doctor.*
After thanking him profusely, she retreated to her flat, sank onto her sofa, and tried to ignore the creeping realisation that she might have been *just a tad* judgmental.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. The blue-haired woman stood there, holding the hand of the young mother’s little girl.
‘Just wanted to check on you,’ she said brightly. ‘Sorry about bringing Molly along—Emily’s at work, and I didn’t fancy leaving her. Honestly, I’ve been meaning to say hello for ages, but you always keep to yourself!’
Before she knew it, Margaret was ushering them inside. ‘Come in, I’ll put the kettle on. And—thank you. Earlier.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ the woman waved her off. ‘I’ve got a sixth sense for when someone’s poorly. Spent my youth looking after my mum—she was bedridden by the time I was fourteen, bless her. Passed when I was thirty-odd. Never got to finish school, never had a proper romance… Just her, really. Barely had time for my own life. But—’ She grinned, tugging playfully at a blue strand. ‘Emily helps me make up for it now. Buys me these mad T-shirts and all. Suppose I’m being a bit silly at my age, but better late than never!’
‘Emily?’ Margaret asked.
‘Oh! The girl next door. Molly’s her sister—their parents died in a car crash years back. Emily adopted her, dropped out of uni to work. George helps out when he can—bless him.’
Long after her guests had left, Margaret sat at her kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall.
She *had* been thinking about going red. Maybe she’d ask the blue-haired neighbour for advice. And she *really* ought to invite George over for dinner—bake him a pie or something.
And Emily—poor girl. Perhaps she could babysit Molly from time to time.
Funny, really. All this time, she’d thought *they* were the odd ones.
