Ive lived in my house for over twenty years now, and my neighbours been here almost as longnot quite a historical landmark, but were getting there. He started building his place about the time I moved on to fussing over wallpaper samples and skirting boards.
We know each other well enough; we chat at the fence, sometimes pop in for a cuppa, but I wouldnt say were bosom buddies. More like, neighbourly acquaintances with an appreciation for boundary lines.
Last winter, I stayed with my daughter for a spell. My health wasnt brilliant and the house felt a bit much, so a temporary move made sense. Spring brought the usual promise of warmer weather and, naturally, the ever-tantalising prospect of returning to my own bed.
By late Aprilonce the perpetual British drizzle had paused and the last stubborn patch of snow had relentedI was back home. The house held up well (my worrying is clearly more productive than I thought). Soon I was out front, elbow-deep in dirt and optimism, getting the garden and veg patch shipshape. The Great British garden: my own version of paradise.
Ive got two little greenhouses. In one, I planted cucumbers and peppers. The other is devoted to a robust crew of tomatoes.
The flowerbeds boasted strawberries, carrots, onions and dill. Near the fence that divides me from my neighbour, theres a battalion of blackcurrant and gooseberry bushesstaunch defenders of the border. This labour didnt slip by unnoticed. Before long, the familiar ache in my back returned. My daughter whisked me off to London for a bit, and later insisted I spend a month in a spa hotel, as if I were a royal with a penchant for carrot peels.
By September, my strength made a comeback. Back in my beloved house, I wandered to my plot, only to find my wooden fence had suffered a rather dramatic breach. I could stroll right into my veg patch from his garden, without even needing to hop the fenceif I fancied.
Clearly, my neighbour had taken liberties with my greenhouses and veggie beds. Not even a text or a phone calldespite the fact my number hasnt changed since 1996.
Naturally, I wasnt chuffed. I asked him about the fence. He admittedwith a straight face no lessthat its simply more convenient this way; a shortcut, you see. Apparently, my tomatoes and cumbers have a gravitational pull. I shared my dissatisfaction, to which he replied with the serenity of a man whod just found loose change in his sofa. I made it clear: the veg patch is off-limits unless permissions grantedpreferably in writing, with at least two witnesses.
And, seeing as hed saved himself so much bother, I requested he fix the fence up to its former glory. Oh, and while hes at it, perhaps ration his bounty and share some of the harvest with menot because Im desperate for tomatoes, but sometimes you have to teach your neighbourly Shakespearean lessons. A little drama, a little irony. Something hell certainly remember next time he fancies a shortcut through my runner beans.
