Theres a saying we have here in England: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. I always thought it was just an idle warning, until life showed me firsthand exactly why it exists.
About half a year ago, a new neighbour moved in across the hall. She was a woman in her forties, always impeccably dressed, with the sort of smile you only see in catalogues. Wed bump into each other by the lift, exchange polite hellosthe usual friendly, distant neighbour routine.
Her first knock on my door came about two weeks after shed moved in. It was just past nine oclock in the evening. I opened the door to see Barbara, looking apologetic, holding an empty cup.
Oh, Im awfully sorry to trouble you, she chirped. Would you believe, I fancied making pancakes, had everything ready, and just realised Im out of salt! Could you spare a pinch? Ill return it tomorrow, promise!
How could I refuse such a small favour? I gave her nearly half my salt cellar, she thanked me profusely, and that was that.
But her visits didnt stop there. Only a few nights later, she turned up againthis time in need of sugar.
I just really wanted a cup of tea, she sighed, bundled in her dressing gown, and its pouring, plus so late Could I borrow a cupful? Ill buy a big bag tomorrow and give it back!
I wasnt fussed, but a little doubt crept in. Shed been here almost a monthsurely she had time to buy the essentials? Salt, sugar, cooking oil, matchesthe bits everyone keeps. Still, I let it slide.
The following week, Barbara needed some eggs. Then it was a splash of oil, then an onion, half a lemon, a teabag, a painkiller, even an emergency loo roll.
It became a routine: evening, apologetic glance, some tale about forgetting the shops, and always, Ill return it tomorrow. Not once did anything come back my way. Her memory was astoundingly convenient: she knew when I was in, but her debts vanished as soon as my door shut.
One day, I found myself short of a carrot needed for stew. Knowing Barbara was in, I popped over. She opened the door, heard me out, and gave me the wide-eyed look of innocence.
Oh, I have carrots, but Im just about to cook. Sorry, havent enough to spare.
And with that, she shut the door.
That was when it really hit me. My things were ours, but her carrot was off-limits and sacred. I resolved then: enough is enoughno more borrowing.
I sat with a notepad and, to the best of my memory, wrote out everything Barbara had borrowed: sugar, eggs, coffee, oil, onion, tablet, lemon, washing powder. Added up, it was nearly £20.
I left the list in the hall drawer, certain Barbara would soon be back, and I wasnt wrong.
Saturday, as luck would have it, I was planning to bake a cake. A knock at the door. Through the spyhole: Barbara with a mixing bowl.
I steadied myself, fixed a polite but chilly smile, and opened the door.
Hello! she burst out merrily. Listen, can you help me? Im making some drop scones, and Im nearly out of buttermilk and completely out of flour! Can you spare about three hundred grams? Ill give it back, of course!
Flour? I repeated. Yes, I have some.
Oh brilliant! You know me, I always keep my word!
Barb, I said, of course. But first, lets settle up what youve already borrowed.
I handed her the prepared list. She blinked, confused. Normally Id just fetch whatever in the kitchen, but this time I was doing the accounting.
Look, I said, pointing to the lines. This is everything youve borrowed off me in the past two months. Lets check: a dozen and a half eggs, right?
Well I never counted she murmured, her smile now wavering.
But I did. And sugarfour times, a mug each. Oil, coffee, powder, lemon, onion. Am I right?
Barbara was silent, her confusion now turning into indignation. How could I? Werent we just neighbours?
I checked the average supermarket prices, I continued. Even knocked off a bit for goodwill. All told: £18.50.
I held out my palm.
As soon as we square up, Ill give you the flour. I can even sift it, if youd like.
You cant be serious! she finally spluttered. A bill? For salt and matches? Are you alright in the head?!
Perfectly, I replied. If you take and dont return, thats not borrowingits buying. Im simply asking for payment.
She threw her hands up. Oh, youre so petty! I thought we were just being neighbourly and here you are, penny-pinching!
Pettiness, I said calmly, is having cash for takeaway sushi but asking your neighbour for a loo roll.
Barbaras face blazed red.
Keep your sodding flour! she barked. Ill never ask you for anything again!
She turned on her heel and slammed her door. I was left clutching my listnot angry, just relieved.
Its been two weeks since. Barbara no longer greets me. In the lift, she turns away, engrossed by her phone. I overheard her moaning to the building manager about choosy, stingy people in this block.
So what would you have done in my shoes? Kept putting up with it?
Sometimes, learning to say no is the kindest thing you can dofor yourself and for those who think your kindness is infinite.
