**Diary Entry – 12th June, 2023**
I’ve lived quietly in Nottingham for years—respectable, orderly, just as life ought to be. No husband, no children, but a tidy flat, a steady job as an accountant at a furniture factory, and the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. At fifty, I’ve little to complain about, especially when I compare myself to my neighbours.
Take the woman across the landing, for instance—Margaret, pushing seventy if she’s a day, yet dyes her hair *bright purple*. At her age! And parades about in skin-tight jeans and garish tops like some teenager. The whole street whispers about her. “Town eccentric,” they say. Disgraceful. I, at least, dress *appropriately*.
Then there’s the girl next door, barely twenty-one with a *child*—looks about five. No parents about; just her and the little one. Probably got pregnant at school, no discipline these days. Worse still, she’s thick as thieves with that purple-haired lunatic. Leaves the girl with her while she’s off Heaven knows where. Birds of a feather, I suppose.
And don’t get me started on the tattooed bloke down the hall—Jason, early thirties, arms and neck covered in ink. What sort of decent person does that? Attention-seeking, that’s what. Should’ve spent his time reading instead of defacing himself.
Every evening, I’d return home, silently smug about my own decency, my orderly life. Sometimes I’d gossip with my friend Elaine over the phone—what else was there to discuss? “The inked-up lout,” “the young mum,” “the mad old bat.”
Then last Tuesday, everything changed.
I’d had a wretched day at work—a discrepancy in the books, the first in years. Of course, *I* was to blame. My head pounded; by the time I reached our building, my legs were lead. I barely made it to the bench outside before collapsing.
Suddenly, a light touch on my arm. I looked up—*Margaret* of all people, peering at me with concern.
“Are you alright? You look peaky.”
“Head… hurts,” I managed.
“Come on, let’s get you to Jason. He’s home.”
“Jason?”
“Your neighbour? The one covered in tattoos? He’s a cardiologist—did you not know?”
Before I could protest, she’d rung his bell. There he stood—*Jason*, the “inked-up lout,” now in scrubs, checking my pulse. He took my blood pressure, gave me a tablet, and within minutes, the pain eased.
“Best get checked properly,” he said, grinning. “Even young ladies like you need to mind their hearts.”
*Young lady.* I nearly choked. Here I’d mocked him for his looks, called him dim—when he was out saving lives daily.
Later, Margaret knocked, little Lily (the “young mum’s” sister, *not* her daughter) in tow. Turned out “mum” was Anna, an orphaned student who’d quit uni to raise her sister after their parents died in a car crash. Jason helped them with rent. *Margaret* had spent her youth caring for *her* dying mother—no schooling, no romance, just years at a bedside. “Now I’m making up for lost time,” she’d said, touching her purple hair.
I sat stunned after they left. All this time, I’d judged them—*mocked* them—when I knew nothing.
Tomorrow, I’ll ask Anna if I can mind Lily sometimes. And perhaps I’ll finally dye my hair that russet shade I’ve fancied. Margaret’s the perfect person to advise. Oh—and I *must* bake Jason a pie.
**Lesson learned: Decency isn’t about appearances. It’s in the kindness we show—or fail to.**
