You wouldnt believe the situation I ended up in with my new neighbour. You know that old saying, Too much kindness can be worse than thievery? I used to think that was a bit much, but honestly, real life proved otherwise.
So, about six months ago, a new lady moved into the flat opposite mine. Probably about forty, always immaculately put together, and forever smiling. Wed nod and say hello by the lifttypical polite neighbourly stuff, nothing special.
Her first knock on my door was about two weeks after she moved in. It was around nine in the evening. I opened the door and there was Jane, looking apologetic and holding an empty mug.
Oh, Im so sorry to bother you, she started off, all chipper. Would you believe it? I decided to make pancakes and have everything ready, except Ive run out of salt! Could you spare a pinch? Ill pop it round tomorrow, promise!
Well, whos going to refuse a bit of salt? So, I poured her nearly half my salt shaker, she thanked me, and off she went.
But then it started. A few days later, she was backthis time she needed some sugar.
Really fancied a cuppa, she said, wrapped up in this big fluffy dressing gown. Its miserable out and getting late Any chance you could lend me a cup? Ill buy a big bag tomorrow and drop it round!
I didnt mind, but something niggled at me. Surely shed had time to pick up the basics by now? Salt, sugar, butter, matchessort of things everyone has. But I let it slide.
The requests snowballed from there. A week later she needed eggs. Then it was a bit of sunflower oil, then an onion, half a lemon, a teabag, a paracetamol, even a loo roll.
It became a ritual: evening, apologetic face, some story about forgetting to buy, and a cheery Ill drop it back tomorrow. But nothing ever came back. Janes memory was phenomenally selectiveshe knew I was always home, yet her debts disappeared from her mind as soon as I shut the door.
One time, I actually needed a carrot for a soup. I knew she was in, so I popped over and asked. She listened, then suddenly looked innocent and said, Oh, I do have some, but I was planning to use them myselfdont think I can spare any. And shut the door in my face.
That was it for me. So my stuff is communal but her carrots are sacred rations? Nope, enoughs enough. I went to my kitchen notebook and wrote down everything Jane had asked for: sugar, eggs, coffee, oil, onion, paracetamol, lemon, washing powderyou name it. Totting it all up, it came to about £30.
I left the list out in the hallway, just knowing it wouldnt be long before I needed it. And I was right.
One Saturday, typically when I was about to bake a cake, the doorbell rang. A quick peek through the spyholeJane, bowl in hand.
I took a deep breath, put on my most polite but frosty smile, and opened the door.
Hiya! she chirped. Sorry, could you save me again? Im making some drop scones, running low on milk, and totally out of flour! Could you spare about 300 grams? Ill bring some round later, honest!
Flour? I repeated. Yep, Ive got some.
Oh brilliant! You know I always give it back!
I smiled. Jane, of course. But first, lets tot up everything from our little neighbourhood sharing scheme.
I handed her the list. She blinked, clearly baffled. She mustve been expecting our usual handover; instead, I gave her an itemised breakdown.
Look, I pointed out, Ive written down everything youve borrowed over the last couple of months. Lets seefifteen eggs, right?
Well, I didnt really count she mumbled, smile fading.
I did. Sugarfour mugs worth. Oil, coffee, washing powder, lemon, onion. Sound right?
Jane just stared at me, looking both confused and increasingly cross. How dare I, when neighbours help each other, right?
I added it all up at supermarket prices, I went on, even gave you a bit of a discount. Its £28.50 altogether.
I held out my hand.
As soon as were square, Ill measure you out some flour. I can even sift it for you.
Youre joking, right? she finally spluttered. Youre invoicing me? For salt and matches? Are you alright?
Never better, I said. If you borrow something, youre meant to return it. If you dont, its not borrowingits buying. Im just asking you to pay for what youve used.
She threw up her hands. God, youre so petty! I thought we were decent neighbours, but youre such a penny pincher!
Petty? Thats having money for takeaway sushi but scrounging loo roll off the woman next door, I replied calmly.
Jane went bright red.
Well keep your stupid flour! she snapped. Ill never ask you for anything again!
Then she spun on her heel and slammed her door. I just stood there with the list, honestly not even crossmore relieved than anything.
Its been a fortnight since, and Janes not spoken to me. In the lift, she turns her back or pretends shes glued to her phone. I even heard her complaining to the building manager about the stingy, odd people in this block.
So, what do you reckon? Would you have kept putting up with it?
