The neighbours decided it was high time to show us who really wore the trousers in our own home. And for no good reason at all.
This all took place five years ago. My wife and I already had two children by then, but the whole family was squeezed into a tiny single-room flat. Naturally, we were desperate for more space, but, at that point, our conversations never really led anywhere practical.
Everything changed when we found out we had another little one on the way. The urgency became real, and we simply had to find a bigger place. Our only real option was to sell the current flat, scrape together whatever extra savings we could, and try our luck at finding a three-bedroom somewhereif only on the outskirts of London.
And thats exactly what we did. We managed to sell our poky little flat and, with some careful budgeting, bought a much-longed-for three-bedroom in a characterful, old Victorian terrace. The place had recently been refurbished, so, thankfully, all we needed to do was move in the furniture.
Life seemed to be going swimmingly, until our upstairs neighbours formed a sort of alliance to remind us that, in their minds, they called the shots in that building.
They constantly found fault with us and bombarded us with ridiculous complaints.
“Why were the front doors left open so long?”
We were carrying things in, so we naturally had the doors propped open for a bit.
“Why are you parking your car beneath my windows?”
I explained my car was parked under my own window, as I lived on the ground floorher flat was above mine, not exactly my problem.
Then came the complaint that truly wound me up.
“Your children race around after nursery and it disturbs me! And when they get home, you let them watch telly far too loudly.”
But how could our girls possibly bother her? They were never clattering about upstairs; her flat was above ours!
The final straw came when the neighbours confronted my pregnant wife, who was due in a month, while I was out one afternoon. The ladies marched over unannounced and kicked up an almighty fuss.
“Weve come to have a word.”
“What about?” my wife asked.
“Your husband, when he nips out for a fag, let a strange man into the building. He was knocking on peoples doors offering to copy the entry fob.”
“But my husband doesn’t smoke,” my wife repliedfair enough, as Ive never smoked in my life. They kept on, claiming that if this man copied the keys he could let himself in whenever he fancied.
As soon as I heard what happened, I went straight round and told them, in no uncertain terms, that enough was enough and I would not stand for any more of their nonsense.
After that episode, things finally settled down. We coexist peacefully now, even though the neighbours still never bother to say hello.
Looking back, I realise its vital to stand your ground, especially when you know youre in the rightand above all, to make sure your family always feels safe at home.
