We were clinging to the lofty dream that my mum would retire, disappear to the countryside, and generously
Gran lived to be eighty. Just last week, she kicked my older brother and his wife out of her flat.
It feels like only yesterday, though it all happened years ago, when my son and his wife surprised me
I buy the finest quality turkey breast for myself and prepare steamed cutlets, while he gets the expired pork.
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but it turned out she longed to live with
One afternoon, I spotted my pleased sister strolling hand in hand with a distinguished gentleman at Marks &
Nearly two years ago, my husband said something to me that I know Ill never be able to forget.
My Dearest. A Story Only recently did I learn that I grew up in a foster family. Even now, its hard for
The Nuisance Next Door
– “Don’t you dare touch my cataract lenses!” screeched my former friend. “Why don’t you worry about your own eyes! You think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?”
– “Oh, so you’re jealous now?” Tamara Bryson was taken aback. “Well, well! Fancy someone, do you? I know exactly what to get you for Christmas—a lip-rolling machine!”
– “Why not keep it for yourself?” Lyudie shot back. “Or are your lips beyond repair these days? Think I don’t notice?”
Old Tamara swung her feet off her ancient bed and made her way to the family prayer corner for her morning prayer.
Not that she was particularly religious: she believed something was out there, obviously—someone had to be running things! But who that was, exactly, always remained a mystery.
This greater power had many names: the cosmos, first cause, and of course, the Good Lord Himself—yes, the kindly old man with a white beard and halo sitting on a cloud, thinking about all mortals below.
Besides, Tamara had long passed the halfway mark of life, closing in on seventy.
At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if there’s nothing up there, the faithful lose nothing; but if there is, the faithless lose everything.
At the end of her prayers, Tamara added a few words of her own: as you do. And so, with the ritual complete and her soul somewhat lighter, she was ready to face another day.
Tamara Bryson faced two main problems in life—not, as you might expect, fools and roads (that’s so clichéd!), but her neighbour Linda and Tamara’s own grandchildren.
With the grandkids, things were obvious: typical modern generation, allergic to hard work. Still, they had parents—let them deal with it!
Linda, though—the neighbour—was another story. She’d become a classic nerve-shredder!
Feuds between great actresses always look touching in films—real life is far less endearing, especially when the nagging is unprovoked.
And Tamara did have a friend—Peter ‘Scooter’ Cosgrove. Full name: Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—it’s all in the surname!
He earned his nickname in his youth, forever zipping about on his beloved scooter—a “moped,” as he liked to call it.
Decades have passed, the scooter now gathering dust in his shed, but the name “Scooter Pete” stuck—a village thing!
They used to be family friends: Scooter Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her late husband. The husbands now rest together in the village churchyard.
Tamara and Pete’s friendship carried on purely out of habit. After all, they’d known each other since school, and Pete was a true friend.
Back then, it was the three of them: Tamara, Pete, and Linda—and they really were just friends, no love triangles at all. They went everywhere arm in arm, like a cup with two handles—designed for a steady grip, just in case!
Over time, though, friendship soured—at least on Linda’s side. After her husband died, she became bitter, her envy slowly leaking out in ugly ways.
Which, perhaps, was understandable. Tamara, despite her age, stayed slender, while Linda had grown plump and shapeless in comparison.
More galling, Pete—their mutual schoolmate—now paid more attention to lively Tamara, sharing private jokes and giggles, leaving Linda stuck in short, awkward conversations.
Even Pete dropped in on Tamara for tea more often; Linda had to invite him if she wanted a visit.
Maybe she wasn’t as clever as insufferable Tamara, nor half as witty. Pete, after all, always loved a good laugh.
Soon Linda was nitpicking over everything. First, she complained about the outside loo:
“Your loo stinks!” barked Linda.
“Really? It’s been there a hundred years; you only just noticed?” Tamara shot back. “What about your free NHS cataracts? You can’t expect miracles from freebies!”
“Don’t you dare touch my lenses!” Linda raged. “You just keep your eyes to yourself! Think I don’t notice?”
“Oh, so you’re jealous now? Fancy someone, do you?” Tamara taunted. “I’m getting you a lip-rolling machine for Christmas!”
“Why not keep it yourself? Or are your lips beyond all help?”
This wasn’t the first or last time. Pete even suggested filling in the outdoor loo, and Tamara’s children chipped in to build her an indoor bathroom—problem solved!
But Linda wasn’t finished. Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of nicking the pears from her overhanging tree—a tree whose branches dangled far into Tamara’s garden.
“They just thought it was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, though she’d seen no missing pears. “Your chickens tear up my veg patch, and I don’t complain!”
“Chickens are stupid! Either egg-layers or broilers!” Linda snapped. “You need to teach your grandkids manners instead of flirting with pensioners!”
And so it went, round and round. The grandkids got a scolding, the pears ripened and fell—Linda found something new to moan about.
This time it was the branches being damaged.
“Where? Show me!” Tamara demanded, seeing nothing amiss.
“Right there! And there!” Linda jabbed with a gnarled finger—Tamara’s own hands were delicate and smooth by comparison, the hands of a lady, even in a village.
Pete suggested just sawing off the branches—after all, on Tamara’s side, she had every right. “She won’t dare object if I help,” he assured.
He was right: Linda watched the pruning in silence.
Next, Tamara raised a legitimate complaint: Linda’s new breed of chickens were destroying her garden beds. Chickens—being chickens—scratch everything up, and now all the planting was ruined.
Whenever Tamara asked her to keep the chickens contained, Linda would just smirk, as if to say, “Just you try!”
Tamara was tempted to catch a couple and roast them in full view but couldn’t bring herself to it.
Resourceful Pete found a solution online: place eggs overnight in the flower beds and gather them ostentatiously in the morning as if Linda’s hens had laid them.
It worked! Linda was flummoxed, watching Tamara collect eggs from the patch. And after that, the chickens never strayed over again.
So, is it peace at last? Not quite. Linda now complained about the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen—her cooking hut.
Yesterday it wasn’t a problem; now it was. Maybe the smell of fried meat is off-limits, or perhaps she fancies herself a vegetarian activist.
“Where’s the barbecue then?” Tamara reasoned. “You might want to clean your specs, darling!”
Normally patient and polite, Tamara had finally had enough—her neighbour was getting utterly impossible.
“Maybe she should be handed over for scientific experiments,” Tamara joked to Pete over tea. “She’d eat me alive!”
“She’d choke! And I wouldn’t let it happen,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!”
A few days later, Tamara was roused by song:
“Tama, Tama—come outside for a drama!”
Pete stood grinning at her door, astride his newly restored old scooter—Scooter Pete, back on the road!
“Know why I was so glum?” he said. “Because my scooter was off the road!”
“Well, hop on, gorgeous, let’s go for a ride and relive our youth!”
And hop on she did! After all, retirement officially starts at sixty-five now, but active pensioners are all the rage!
And off they went, straight into a new chapter of life.
Soon after, Pete Cosgrove popped the question, and Tamara became Mrs Cosgrove.
The pieces fit at last: she moved in with her new husband, and Linda was left behind, lonely, sour, and twice her original size. Plenty of new reasons for envy.
With no one left to quarrel with, Linda’s bitterness turned inward—a pain in need of another victim…
So watch out, Tamara! Don’t step outside!
Because in the village, life is always a drama. What else did you expect? All that fuss about lavatories for nothing… Oi, dont you dare touch my glasses, you hear me? bellowed my ex-mate Margaret from the other side of
His wife packed her bags and vanished without a word. Stop acting so innocent. Shell calm downthey always do.
