The Neighbour has Decided She Can Ask for Anything! Now All She Needs to Do is Move in with Me.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

The neighbour has decided she can ask for anythingnow she only has to move in with me. I need an outside opinion. Heres the situation: my daughter Lily is friends with a boy from next door, James, who is a few years older. I sometimes meet Jamess mother, Mrs. Thompson, but I wouldnt call her a friend.

We start to see each other regularly because of the children. We meet on walks, she hands me clothes that are too small for her son, and I return them while bringing a carton of orange juice and some biscuits as a thankyou. After a while I stop accepting anything from her, thinking its better to buy everything myself and not feel obliged.

The casual walks turn into a very odd relationship. Mrs. Thompson begins to ask me for things all the time. What starts as a daily request becomes Give me a coffee!. If someone likes coffee, they should buy it themselves rather than beg for it every morning. She drops by even though I never invite her over. When she sees Lilys toys she swoons, grabs a few to take home, and always wants more. She has already taken a lot of our stuff.

She never invites herself in, claiming her mother is ill, even though her mother lives in a separate flat. She doesnt hesitate to ask for medication when James is sick, requesting items that any kitchen cabinet would have. Sometimes she even asks for things for herself. I cant understand how anyone can live like that. A simple fever reducer should be in every mums cupboard. She hands out nearly empty packets and bottles, and that was bought for my baby, which I cant use any longer.

It doesnt stop there. She frequently asks whether we have food for her son, yet I never ask her or the other neighbours. I make a meal for my baby and thats it. She constantly uses our shopping trolley without asking. She always wants things she doesnt have, and theres always something she lacks.

One day her cheek shocks me. When my whole family is ill, she calls and says shell pop over for a coffee but will be with her son. I love children, but Im fed up with other peoples kids wandering into our house like its a shop, rummaging through Lilys stuff and picking what they want to play with. I tell her were all sick and could pass the bug to her. I should have told her we werent inviting her.

Her visits never come with May I come in? She arrives unannounced and demands, Give me that. It doesnt matter if Im busy or if Id rather not see her; she just occupies my personal space.

I havent called her in ages nor invited her for a walk, yet she keeps ringing. One of my mates says I have only two options: keep tolerating her rudeness or cut off contact completely. I dont want to fight with her; the kids are friends and we live close. Soon well be taking them to school together, and Im clueless about handling a confrontation.

The Terrible Neighbour “Don’t touch my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “So, you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Borisovna looked surprised. “Oh, I see who you’ve got your sights on! I know what I’ll get you for Christmas—a lip curler!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond help even with that?” Old Tamara swung her legs off the ancient bed and walked over to her shelf of trinkets, ready for her morning routine. She wouldn’t call herself overly religious: surely something must be out there, someone in charge of all this, right? Just not sure who. Such a power went by many names: the universe, the great beyond, and of course, the Good Lord! Yes, that kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, nestled on a cloud and thinking of all us mortals. Besides, Tamara was well into her late sixties now. At that age, better not fall out with the Big Guy: if He isn’t there, well, no harm done for believing. But if He is—non-believers lose everything. So at the end of her morning prayers Tamara always added a little something in her own words. Why not? Ritual complete, soul lighter—time to start a new day. Tamara Borisovna had two great misfortunes. No, not fools and roads (that would be too clichéd). It was her neighbour Lynda and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were a typical modern lot—didn’t want to do anything. But hey, they had their parents to wrangle them. But what to do about Lynda? She could wind Tamara up like no-one else! On telly, sparring between famous actresses looks touching and fun. In real life, it’s anything but charming, especially when the nitpicking is for no reason. Tamara also had a friend: everyone called him Pete the Moped. His full name: Peter James Wagstaff—what a name! Guessing the origin of his nickname was easy: in his youth, Pete had loved whizzing about on his moped. Well, ‘moped’, as the cheeky lads called it. These days, the broken old bike gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck fast—a proper village tale! Back in the day, they’d been family friends: Pete the Moped and wife Nina, Tamara and her husband. Now, both their partners rested peacefully in the local cemetery. Tamara still stuck by Pete—she’d known him since school, after all, and he was a true friend. Back at school, there were three of them: Tamara, Pete and Lynda—a golden trio, nothing flirtatious about it. They’d go everywhere together, Pete in the middle, Tamara and Lynda each holding on to an arm—a perfect two-handled cup, as Tamara liked to picture it. But over the years, the friendship faded. Actually, it turned sour—first into Lynda’s coldness, then outright animosity. As in the cartoon: “More and more, I feel like someone swapped me out for a copy…” Indeed, it was as if someone swapped Lynda out! It happened after her husband died—before that, things had been reasonably all right. Of course, people change with time: a bit stingy becomes downright miserly. Chatty becomes gossipy. Envy can tear a person to bits. That’s probably what happened with Lynda—well, women are like that. So are men, to be fair. And there was reason to be jealous. First, Tamara had stayed trim over the years, whereas Lynda had gone quite round: where’s the waist meant to be, madam? She hardly looked her best compared to her neighbour. Second, their old school friend Pete paid much more attention to sprightly Tamara—lots of whispers and giggles, nearly touching grey heads. With Lynda, exchanges were curt and stiff. Pete popped by Tamara’s for tea far more often; Lynda practically had to bribe him to visit her… Sure, maybe she wasn’t as clever as annoying Tamara. Or as funny! And Pete loved a good laugh. There’s a fine English word for nattering—wittering, which Shukshin himself would approve of. And lately, that’s exactly what Lynda did, picking fights over nothing. First, she announced Tamara’s toilet was stinking up the place! “Your loo smells foul!” Lynda pronounced. “Oh, honestly! It’s been in the same place for years—you only just now noticed?” Tamara shot back, then couldn’t resist: “And you got those new glasses free on the NHS—can’t expect quality for free!” “Don’t you dare talk about my glasses!” Lynda shrieked. “Worry about your own eyes! Think I don’t see you ogling about?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara raised an eyebrow. “I know what I’ll get you for Christmas: a lip curler!” “Keep it for yourself!” Lynda snapped. “Or is there no machine that can cope with your pout? Think I don’t see?” Oh, Lynda saw all right, time and again. Pete, when told about it, suggested they brick up the outdoor loo and put one indoors. Tamara’s son and daughter chipped in, and before long she had a smart indoor toilet. Pete, ever the handyman, buried the old waste pit himself. Take that, Lynda! Time to find a new complaint! No chance. Lynda promptly accused Tamara’s grandchildren of stripping pears from her tree—the branches stretched over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought it was ours!” Tamara tried, even though, as she saw it, nobody touched the pears! “Anyway, your chickens scratch up my veggie patch, you know!” “Chickens are stupid—it’s in their nature!” Lynda snapped, voice rising. “But grandkids need raising, Nana—not giggling all day with your scandals!” So, back to square one: it all turned into a tiff about Pete again… The kids got a firm word, and pears were soon out of season: rest easy, Lynda! No luck: now, according to Lynda, the branches were damaged! “Show me!” Tamara protested—nothing was broken! “Here and here!” Lynda stabbed the air with a gnarled finger. Even Tamara’s hands were prettier: slender, elegant. Hands say a lot about a woman! Even in the countryside, style’s important. Pete suggested cutting the offending branches. “They’re on your property? You can do as you like!” “She’ll shout the roof down!” Tamara worried. “I bet she won’t,” Pete assured her. “I’ll have your back!” And indeed, even though Lynda saw Pete pruning, she stayed totally silent. So, the tree problem solved. But now it was Tamara’s turn—Lynda’s hens truly did invade her garden beds. This year Lynda had a new breed—last year wasn’t so bad. But a chicken is a chicken: dumb as a post, forever scratching. Tamara’s seedlings ended up raked out. Tamara asked nicely, but Lynda only smirked: what are you going to do about it? One option: catch a chicken or two, and make a point of roasting them for Sunday lunch! But gentle Tamara wasn’t up for such drastic measures. Instead, her clever friend suggested something from the internet—scatter eggs around the beds at night, and collect them in the morning as if the hens had laid them. It worked! Thanks, world wide web! Lynda, stunned, watched Tamara collecting eggs from the veg patch and said not a word. The hens never set foot there again. Surely now, they’d make peace? Lynda, how about it? No more reason to squabble! Not so fast! Lynda now complained about kitchen smoke and smells from Tamara’s summer house, where she cooked until late autumn. Yesterday it was fine, today it’s a problem! Maybe I’m bothered by the smell of frying meat—maybe I’m vegetarian! And Parliament even passed rules about backyard barbecues! “Where’ve you seen a barbecue?” Tamara asked, exasperated. “You need to clean your glasses, darling!” She remained patient and polite, but this was too much. The neighbour had become downright impossible—no peace from Lynda… “Maybe I should donate her for research,” Tamara joked wearily to Pete over tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” She’d dropped weight with all this stress. “She’d choke!” Pete grinned, “And I’d never let it happen! I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, on a bright morning, Tamara heard a song: “Tammy, Tammy—come out and see me!” There was Pete, standing by the door, beaming—he’d fixed up his old moped. “You know why I used to be sad?” he announced. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a ride, gorgeous? Let’s remember the good old days!” Tamara hopped on gleefully! After all, Parliament says 65+ makes you an active retiree these days—old age is officially cancelled! Off she went, into a new life in every sense. Before long, she’d become Mrs Wagstaff: Pete proposed and she moved in with her new husband. And Lynda? Alone, plump and peevish as ever. Tell me, what better reason to be jealous? And with no one left to quarrel with, she had only herself to stew with her gripes. But negativity needs somewhere to go… So, chin up, Tamara, and don’t leave your new home! Who knows what’s next? Life in the English countryside is a real soap opera! All that trouble over the loo really was for nothing…