Every courtyard has that one woman who screams from her window whenever someone lights a cigarette beneath it, complaining that the smell invades her flat. She chases teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night, insisting they wont disturb her sleep, and she writes endless letters to the housing office about the uncollected rubbish. If youve never met such a woman, it must be you. In fact, its me the angry neighbour.
I cannot stand the dogowners in my block. Their mutts leave piles of excrement in my geranium and peony beds, turning the flowerbeds into a battlefield. Worse than the owners are those who feed stray dogs. Those freeloaders not only dump heaps of waste, they bury bones among the blossoms and then let the dogs bark at night until Im haunted for a week, or start howling in spring. I also loathe the catowners, because the smell of cat litter drifts from their doors like a sour perfume. If their cats roam the hallway, its a nightmare. Once a snarling cat leapt onto my balcony and nearly made me turn grey when I ventured out to shout at the neighbours children.
And the tiny gnomes I cant stand them either. I have no idea why anyone would love them or what to do with them. Their fragility and unstoppable chaos frighten me. Once Aunt Mabel asked me to watch her fiveyearold cousin, and he devoured my brain with a teaspoon in half an hour. He started with a toy tractor, then after his mum finally appeared from the stairwell, he wanted food not my soup with meatballs, but he smeared the porridge all over the table while I turned away. While I was washing the table, the little rascal found my cosmetics and, as you can guess, used my favourite crimson Chanel lipstick. For fifteen minutes the flat was silent, then he moved on to the meatballs, leaving greasy fingerprints on the kitchen walls and corridor. Who knew a child shouldnt eat so much fried food? By evening he vomited all over the flat, his stomach bubbling with acetone. A spoonful of activated charcoal soothed him, and I returned the exhausted boy to his anxious mother.
My battles with the neighbours began around fifteen years ago, when an old lady in the lift stared at me with a look that screamed, Youre a slag. It struck a nerve, and I immediately took revenge by stuffing her letterbox with every free flyer I could find in unlocked postboxes: pamphlets for fanciful windows, miraclehealth newspapers, adverts for magnetic hypertension bracelets. For a month her mailbox overflowed with paper. Whenever she looked for the electricity bill, a mountain of junk fell out.
I didnt stop there. I stole her bill, photocopied it with an extra zero, and sent it back. She marched to the electricity board, arguing with the dull operators, demanding the truth. In the end, the old woman and I were at odds.
My scandalous nature peaked when I reclaimed a strip of garden bed beneath my window. After trial and error I discovered geraniums were the best they arent stolen by lovestruck youths trying to impress their mates, and drunks avoid them because the scent repels any desire to linger. One bright, warm morning I found a car parked on my flowerbed. The front wheels brushed the white curb, and the massive bumper loomed over the red blossoms like a death sentence to the audacious bandit who dared trespass.
Whose garden is that? I asked sharply, addressing Mrs. Lucy, the nosy neighbour Id nicknamed the spy.
Mrs. Lucy, a stout woman who returned from the earlymorning market with five cats in tow, settled on the bench and never missed a mouse scurrying by. A bloke from the fifth floor, I reckon, she said, having spotted the owner long ago. Only rogues drive jeeps around here.
Who is he? I pressed, knowing every resident of the block. None looked like a proper gangster. A cheeky street kid isnt a gangster; he cant even afford a pint.
Mrs. Lucys eyes lit up. Martha from flat 43 was taken in by the kids. Shes weak now, her legs wont obey, and asthmas got her down. After five tedious minutes of chronicling ailments, we finally learned the flat was occupied by the old ladys grandson, who was now renovating.
A sense of scandal hung in the air, and I rushed to the lift to warn the cursed bandit that his car was far from my geraniums. The doorbell rang, but no one answered. The car lingered under the windows, yet the door stayed shut. I knocked on the cold, brown leatherupholstered door, wondering if perhaps he couldnt hear the bell. Still, no one opened.
Undeterred, I scribbled a note and slipped it under the door: Dear unknown, please remove your dirty vehicle from my flowerbed at once, or I wont be responsible for the consequences. The next day the jeep still loomed, its shadow staining my beloved geraniums, fraying my nerves.
I sprinted to Mrs. Lucy. Did the bandit from flat 43 show up today? I asked.
No, she shook her head. He arrived in another car, stayed a few hours, then left.
So he drives another car while his junkyard sits on my flowers? I snapped.
Give him a call, she suggested. He left his number just in case. He doesnt drive; someone else does probably his boss.
What a polite gangster, I muttered, suspicious.
Their gangsters are surprisingly courteous, Mrs. Lucy replied, her eyes sparkling with some strange charm. He brings fish for my cats, says a friend runs a fish market and can supply fresh catch daily.
The thought of our stairwell reeking of cat litter and fish made my hatred surge. I copied his number, dialed without delay.
Hello? a deep, mellow male voice answered.
Did you get my note? I demanded.
Yes.
Why havent you removed your bucket from my garden?
You forgot the magic word, he replied calmly.
This is my final request clear your vehicle from my flowers, I pleaded, trying to stay peaceful. His voice was oddly pleasant, and my fury softened a notch.
Never! he snarled. Its convenient for me. And to be honest, I didnt even hit the flowers, just the curb.
Ill make you regret it, I warned.
I doubt it, he scoffed.
I hung up and tried to scorch the car with my stare. Nothing happened the black metal remained unchanged. No worries; I had years of triedandtrue methods for dealing with pests and disobedient neighbours. Tomorrow the owner would be remorseful.
Come dawn, I watched from my balcony as the car, once sleek black, now bore speckles of brown. Birds circled the hood, which I had dusted with millet the night before. They pecked where I fed them. The drivers face was unseen, but his tall, sturdy, bald silhouette was unmistakable a classic hoodlum. Did I fear him? Not at all; Ive faced worse.
By evening the car was spotless again, wheels digging into the curb and leaving dark tyre marks the size of the scars on my heart. It read like a declaration of war, literal and absurd.
I stormed back inside, nearly slipping over a grotesque neighbours cat clutching a fish in its jaws. Take the fish to flat 43! I muttered, and a sudden clarity struck me.
That night the entire stairwell slept poorly; cats from every block swarmed flat 43, holding a concert. A tiny bottle of valerian tincture, which I had splashed on the brown leather door, seemed to summon them. We chased cats through the hallway, slammed doors, and cursed the bald neighbour. The scent of his scalps wounds mingled with the perfume of my hearts bruises. By morning, a birdfeatherladen roof greeted his car once more.
The next day the bandit vanished, and I could not get back into my flat the key wouldnt turn. I wrestled with it for half an hour, cursing his meddling hands. I called a locksmith, who pried the lock apart with a matchstick.
Hungry, angry, and determined, I plotted my next trick. Leaving matches in a locks keyhole was hardly a crime I could ignore, so I Googled where to buy Salidol.
Morning arrived peacefully; the cats were silent, I slept soundly, brewed a coffee from my favourite Italian blend, and nearly dropped the cup when a forceful knock shattered the door. Someone perhaps my longawaited opponent stood there. I opened it to find a man who looked like a polished version of a former political fixer, dressed in acidblue jeans and a green tee. Without a word, he swaggered into my kitchen, discarding his leathersoft shoes at the threshold.
He grabbed a bottle of aloeinfused dish soap and began washing his hands at the sink.
Couldnt you do that at home? he asked, not looking up.
Come closer, he replied, continuing to lather his hands. I, furious yet oddly amused, seized a tube of Salidol and smeared it on every handle of his car.
Finishing his handwash, he wiped his fingers on my pristine kitchen towel, then sniffed the air.
That smells like coffee, he remarked, taking my cup and sipping my brew. He closed his eyes, sighed contentedly, and said, Not bad. I might even forgive you this once.
I wanted to punch him, but his warm eyes and gentle smile disarmed me. If youve looked, get out! I snapped, though his compliment lingered like a butterfly in my stomach. I tried to reignite my anger, but his gaze was a gentle breeze that cooled the fire.
He shrugged. I meant the same thing. I get the idea putting matches in a lock is a bit much.
It wasnt me! I protested. Youre the teenager playing with fire. Heres your bill for the locksmith!
I proudly presented the receipt from the handyman, as if gathering evidence for a future court case.
It wasnt me, he said, shaking his head. If not you, then who?
I let my damp hair fall over my shoulders, noting his tall, bald, sturdy frame the perfect hoodlum. I wasnt scared; Id tamed worse.
My brief triumph faded when, that evening, the spotless car reappeared on my flowerbed, wheels pressing the curb, leaving fresh tyre marks the size of fresh wounds on my psyche. It was a declaration of war, both literal and absurd.
I fled back inside, nearly colliding with a ragged neighbours cat clutching a fish. Take the fish to flat 43! I muttered, and a sudden clarity struck me.
That night the entire stairwell slept poorly; cats from every block swarmed flat 43, holding a concert. A tiny bottle of valerian tincture, which I had splashed on the brown leather door, seemed to summon them. We chased cats through the hallway, slammed doors, and cursed the bald neighbour. The scent of his scalps wounds mingled with the perfume of my hearts bruises. By morning, a birdfeatherladen roof greeted his car once more.
The next day the bandit vanished, and I could not get back into my flat the key wouldnt turn. I wrestled with it for half an hour, cursing his meddling hands. I called a locksmith, who pried the lock apart with a matchstick.
Hungry, angry, and determined, I plotted my next trick. Leaving matches in a locks keyhole was hardly a crime I could ignore, so I Googled where to buy Salidol.
Morning arrived peacefully; the cats were silent, I slept soundly, brewed a coffee from my favourite Italian blend, and nearly dropped the cup when a forceful knock shattered the door. Someone perhaps my longawaited opponent stood there. I opened it to find a man who looked like a polished version of a former political fixer, dressed in acidblue jeans and a green tee. Without a word, he swaggered into my kitchen, discarding his leathersoft shoes at the threshold.
He grabbed a bottle of aloeinfused dish soap and began washing his hands at the sink.
Couldnt you do that at home? he asked, not looking up.
Come closer, he replied, continuing to lather his hands. I, furious yet oddly amused, seized a tube of Salidol and smeared it on every handle of his car.
Finishing his handwash, he wiped his fingers on my pristine kitchen towel, then sniffed the air.
That smells like coffee, he remarked, taking my cup and sipping my brew. He closed his eyes, sighed contentedly, and said, Not bad. I might even forgive you this once.
I wanted to punch him, but his warm eyes and gentle smile disarmed me. If youve looked, get out! I snapped, though his compliment lingered like a butterfly in my stomach. I tried to reignite my anger, but his gaze was a gentle breeze that cooled the fire.
He shrugged. I meant the same thing. I get the idea putting matches in a lock is a bit much.
It wasnt me! I protested. Youre the teenager playing with fire. Heres your bill for the locksmith!
I proudly presented the receipt from the handyman, as if gathering evidence for a future court case.
It wasnt me, he said, shaking his head. If not you, then who?
I let my damp hair fall over my shoulders, noting his tall, bald, sturdy frame the perfect hoodlum. I wasnt scared; Id tamed worse.
The next morning, after a night of sleepless cats, a neighbour named Simon knocked on my door, offering to fix the squeaky bathroom door and the crooked kitchen cabinet. He also mentioned that Mrs. Lucy had been gossiping about loud music from flat 43, claiming she wanted revenge. I felt no great hatred toward her, but revenge seemed inevitable. I would settle it later, once Simon repaired my door.
And so the surreal block of flats continued its endless cycle of petty wars, fragrant geraniums, stray cats, and the occasional rogue car perched like a metallic beast on my flowerbed, all under the watchful, dreamtangled eyes of an English neighbourhood that never quite sleeps.
