Every street seems to have that one lady who shouts from her window if anyone lights up a cigarette right under it It smells terrible in my flat! Shell chase teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night so they dont keep anyone awake, and shes always penning complaints to the landlord about the nevercleared rubbish. If you dont know such a lady, it must be you. In fact, its me the dreaded neighbour.
I simply cannot stand the dogowners. Their pooches dump their mess in my geranium and peony beds. Even worse are the people who feed stray dogs. Those lazy lot not only leave piles of waste, they bury bones among the flowers and let the dogs bark at night so loudly you spend the whole week looking over your shoulder. And when spring rolls around they start howling like its a choir competition.
Im just as annoyed by the catowners the whole flat smells like a litter box! And if the cats are allowed to roam the courtyard, its an outright nightmare. One time a huge, mangy tomcat leapt onto my balcony and nearly gave me a heart attack when I went out to shout at the kids next door.
And yes, Ive got a soft spot for those tiny goblins the little kids. I cant see why anyone would love them or what youre supposed to do with them. They frighten me with their fragility and total lack of control. Once my aunt asked me to look after her fiveyearold nephew, Tim. In half an hour hed managed to ruin my whole brain with a teaspoon. First he was playing with his toy tractor for a few minutes until his mum finally appeared from the stairwell. Then he wanted to eat not the porridge Id made with meatballs, but something else. He smeared that porridge all over the kitchen table while I turned my back. While I was washing the table, the little rogue found my makeup bag and, you guessed it, swiped my favourite red Chanel lipstick. At least the chaos lasted about fifteen minutes. After that he went after the meatballs, and soon the kitchen walls and hallway were dotted with greasy little handprints.
Turns out you shouldnt give a small child too much fried food. By evening hed turned my whole flat into a mess because hed gotten a bit of acetone on his skin. Thankfully a spoonful of activated charcoal settled him down, and I was able to return the little fellow to his frazzled mum without any more drama.
My feud with the neighbours started about fifteen years ago when an old lady living by the stairwell gave me a look that said Youre a proper nightmare. I was so riled up that I started slipping every scrap of free advertising I could find flyers for windowreplacement, miraclehealth magazines, magnetic wristbands for blood pressure straight into her mailbox. Shed open it and find a mountain of paper instead of her electricity bill. I even stole that bill, added an extra zero, and tossed the fake one back at her. Shed storm off to the electricity board, screaming at the operators, while I sat back with a smug grin.
My reputation for causing trouble only grew when I fought for a patch of garden space under my window. After a lot of trial and error I discovered geraniums were the best no one would steal them, not even the lovelorn lads trying to impress their mates, and the local drunks stay clear of the bushy scent. Then, one bright summer morning, I found a car parked smackdab in the middle of my flowerbed! The front wheels were touching the white curb, the massive bumper looming over the red blossoms like a threat.
Whose car is that? I asked, trying to sound casual as I walked over to Mrs. Lucy, the gossipqueen of flat three.
Mrs. Lucy was already perched on her bench, fresh from the market with bags of cat food for her five felines. Shed never miss a mouse, let alone a stray car. Looks like a bloke from the fifth floor, she said, eyes twinkling. Ive seen the driver around always a Jeep, proper bandit material.
Whos the driver? I asked, because I knew everyone in the block, and none of them looked like a criminal. Not the usual lad who cant afford a pint, thats for sure.
Oh, thats Marjorie from flat 43. Her kids have taken her in shes getting weak, cant walk properly, and her asthmas gotten worse, Lucy added, sighing.
After a few minutes of boring health updates, we finally got to the point the flat was being taken over by Lucys grandson, who was doing some renovations. The tension in the air was palpable, so I bolted for the lift, determined to tell the driver where his car should not be parked. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. The car was still there, and the front door stayed shut. I knocked on the cold, brown leatherupholstered door, thinking maybe he hadnt heard the bell.
I didnt lose my cool, though. I slipped a note under the door: Dear unknown driver, please remove your filthy car from my flowerbed at once, or I wont be responsible for what happens next. I pushed the paper in and waited. A day passed and the damn Range Rover was still looming over my beloved geraniums, driving me mad.
I ran out to Mrs. Lucy. Did the bloke from flat 43 show up today?
Nope, she shook her head. He was here in a different car, stayed a few hours, then left.
So hes driving around in another vehicle while his junk is trashing my flowers? I snapped.
Lucy suggested I give the man a call. He left his number just in case. He doesnt drive it himself someone else does. Probably his boss.
What, is he a mob boss now? I asked, suspicious.
Lucy laughed. Even gangsters have manners, love. He says his friend runs a fish stall, brings him fresh fish and liver for his cats, so he can haul it every day.
The thought of the whole block reeking of fish as well as cat litter made my blood boil. I jotted down the number and, without wasting a second, dialed.
Hello? a deep voice answered.
Did you get my note? I demanded.
Yes, he said.
Then why havent you moved your car?
He chuckled. Youre missing a magic word, love.
Im asking nicely, please move it, I pleaded, trying to stay calm despite the irritation bubbling up.
He replied, I wont. Its convenient for me. And no, I didnt park on your flowers.
Ill make you regret it, I warned.
He scoffed, Well see.
I hung up and tried to scorch the car with my stare it didnt even smoke. No worries, Ive got a few tricks up my sleeve for stubborn neighbours. By the next morning the owner of the Rover was already lamenting his own behaviour, while I watched from my balcony as his black metal beast turned a mottled shade of grey. Id sprinkled the bonnet with wheat earlier that night, and the birds had taken a liking to it. Hed look like a proper mess.
His face wasnt visible from the top of the flowerbed, but I could see he was tall, stocky, and bald classic bandit material. Did I feel scared? Not a bit. Ive dealt with worse.
Evening came and the car was spotless again, front wheels rubbing the curb, leaving dirty tyre marks exactly the size of the scars on my heart. It felt like a declaration of war.
I stormed back inside, nearly tripping over the neighbours cat, Mabel, who was dragging a fish in her mouth.
Take that fish to flat 43! I muttered at the cat, and a grin spread across my face.
That night the whole block slept badly cats from all over the neighbourhood swarmed into flat 43, holding a concert of yowls. Id laced a tiny bottle of valerian essential oil into the brown leather door mat, hoping the scent would keep them at bay. I chased the cats down the hallway, slammed doors, and cursed the neighbour. The scent of my own fury mixed with the lingering smell of the cats fish.
By morning the cars roof was covered in a fine layer of bird droppings, courtesy of the pigeons Id attracted earlier. I felt a strange mix of triumph and annoyance.
Just then the neighbour, a bloke named Simon (yes, thats his name), showed up with a toolbox. Hed been called in to fix the lock on my front door the key wouldnt turn, probably because of all the fuss. He managed to get it open with a matchstick trick, and I felt a surge of satisfaction.
Hungry, angry, and a little bit exhausted, I sat down to plot my next move. I Googled where to buy salicylate spray and noted it down for future use.
The next morning was surprisingly peaceful the cats had gone quiet, I slept soundly, and I brewed a cup of my favourite Italian coffee. I almost dropped the mug when the door burst open with a force that could have knocked a horse down. In walked my new friend, a bloke who looked like a slightly cleaner version of a certain politician Id seen on the news, dressed in bright blue jeans and a green tee. He slipped his shoes off, didnt bother with the mat, and headed straight for the kitchen.
Cant you do that at home? I snapped, halflaughing.
He stared at me, his eyes softening. Youve got coffee there, right? Mind if I have a sip?
Yes, go ahead, I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He poured the coffee into my own mug, took a big gulp, and said, Not bad. Ill be honest I didnt expect a witch living next door.
Then get out of here! I retorted, though my heart was oddly fluttering at his gentle smile.
He laughed, Youre a proper character, love.
I tried to throw a punch, but he just sipped his coffee again, eyes crinkling with amusement. I get it, youre mad about the car. But Im not moving it.
Ill make you regret it, I warned again.
He shrugged, Youll just have to try harder.
I hung up, thinking of the matchsticks still stuck in the lock. Id already smeared the cars door handles with a bit of vaseline, hoping the slippery mess would make it harder for anyone to grip them.
The next day I watched from my balcony as the black Rover turned a spotted, dirty colour. A few sparrows were now perched on the bonnet, attracted by the wheat Id scattered. The driver, a tall, bald man, stared down at me with a grin that said, Bring it on.
Evening rolled around and the car was back in its pristine state, tyres leaving fresh black tracks on the curb the same size as the marks Id felt on my own soul. It was a proper showdown.
I rushed back inside, nearly crashing into the neighbours cat, Mabel, who was now proudly holding a fish in her mouth.
Take that fish to flat 43! I whispered, feeling a mischievous thrill.
That night the whole block was a mess of howls cats from every corner swarmed into flat 43, turning it into a feline concert hall. Id laced a tiny bottle of valerian essential oil into the brown leather door mat, hoping the scent would keep them at bay. I chased the cats down the hallway, slammed doors, and cursed the neighbour. The scent of my own fury mixed with the lingering smell of the cats fish.
By morning the cars roof was covered in a fine layer of bird droppings, courtesy of the pigeons Id attracted earlier. I felt a strange mix of triumph and annoyance.
Just then the neighbour, a bloke named Simon (yes, thats his name), showed up with a toolbox. Hed been called in to fix the lock on my front door the key wouldnt turn, probably because of all the fuss. He managed to get it open with a matchstick trick, and I felt a surge of satisfaction.
Hungry, angry, and a little bit exhausted, I sat down to plot my next move. I Googled where to buy salicylate spray and noted it down for future use.
The next morning was surprisingly peaceful the cats had gone quiet, I slept soundly, and I brewed a cup of my favourite Italian coffee. I almost dropped the mug when the door burst open with a force that could have knocked a horse down. In walked my new friend, a bloke who looked like a slightly cleaner version of a certain politician Id seen on the news, dressed in bright blue jeans and a green tee. He slipped his shoes off, didnt bother with the mat, and headed straight for the kitchen.
Cant you do that at home? I snapped, halflaughing.
He stared at me, his eyes softening. Youve got coffee there, right? Mind if I have a sip?
Yes, go ahead, I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He poured the coffee into my own mug, took a big gulp, and said, Not bad. Ill be honest I didnt expect a witch living next door.
Then get out of here! I retorted, though my heart was oddly fluttering at his gentle smile.
He laughed, Youre a proper character, love.
I tried to throw a punch, but he just sipped his coffee again, eyes crinkling with amusement. I get it, youre mad about the car. But Im not moving it.
Ill make you regret it, I warned again.
He shrugged, Youll just have to try harder.
I hung up, thinking of the matchsticks still stuck in the lock. Id already smeared the cars door handles with a bit of vaseline, hoping the slippery mess would make it harder for anyone to grip them.
The next day I watched from my balcony as the black Rover turned a spotted, dirty colour. A few sparrows were now perched on the bonnet, attracted by the wheat Id scattered. The driver, a tall, bald man, stared down at me with a grin that said, Bring it on.
Evening rolled around and the car was back in its pristine state, tyres leaving fresh black tracks on the curb the same size as the marks Id felt on my own soul. It was a proper showdown.
