Every block of flats has that one lady who shouts from her windows when you light a cigarette on the balcony, claiming the smell is seeping into her flat. She chases teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night so they dont disturb her sleep, and she writes endless complaints to the landlord about uncollected rubbish. If you havent met such a woman, youre probably her neighbour. In fact, that woman is me the nasty nextdoor. I cant stand dog owners. Their mutts leave piles of muck in my geranium and peony beds. I despise even more the people who feed stray dogs; those scoundrels not only dump their waste, they bury bones among the flowers and then start barking at odd hours, making me stare at the street for days, or howling in the spring.
Im equally irritated by cat owners their flats reek of litter boxes. If the cats are allowed to roam the back garden, its a nightmare. One time a mangy tom leapt onto my balcony and nearly gave me a heart attack when I went out to yell at the neighbours kids. You guessed it bingo! I cant tolerate little gremlins either. I have no idea what you could possibly love about them or what to do with them. Their frailty and uncontrollable antics frighten me. Once Aunt Margaret asked me to look after her fiveyearold cousin. In half an hour hed chewed through my brain with a teaspoon. He started off sweetly playing with a toy tractor, but after five minutes his mum finally emerged from the entrance hall. Then he wanted to eat not the porridge with meatballs Id made, but he smeared the whole thing across the table when I turned my back. While I was washing up he found my makeup bag and, as you can imagine, managed to swipe my favourite red Chanel lipstick. At least he was quiet for fifteen minutes. Then the little rascal dug into the meatballs, and the kitchen walls ended up with greasy finger prints.
Who knew a toddler shouldnt have too much fried food? By evening hed spattered the whole flat with acetone fumes. Fortunately a spoonful of activated charcoal settled him down, and I handed the little bloke back to his frantic mum with a sigh of relief.
My feud with neighbours began about fifteen years ago, when an old lady by the stairs gave me a look that said, Youre a proper slag. I snapped back at her straightaway, stuffing every free flyer I could find into her postbox adverts for doubleglazed windows, miracle health tonics, magnetic bracelets for blood pressure you name it. Her box overflowed with paper for a month, each time she searched for the electricity bill a mountain of junk crashed onto her. I even stole her bill, altered it by adding an extra zero and sent the fake one back. She stormed off to the energy board, arguing with clueless clerks, and never bothered with me again.
My temper reached new heights when I reclaimed a slice of garden bed under my window. After trial and error I discovered geraniums were the toughest to steal; even the most persistent lovestruck lads who try to bribe the ladies with flowers cant lift them. Drunks steer clear of the patch too the scent repels them like a bad hangover.
One bright spring morning I found a car perched on my geranium beds. The front wheels nudged the white line of the pavement and the massive bumper loomed over the red blossoms. It was a clear warning to the brazen driver who dared trespass on my holy ground.
Whose car is that? I asked the neighbour, Mrs. Lucy, who I often call the spy in the garden. Mrs. Lucy is a habitbreaker, out on the pavement each morning after buying food for her five cats. Nothing escapes her keen eye not even a mouse.
Its a bloke from the fifth floor, she explained, clearly having spotted the driver long ago. Only bandits drive Rovers around here. I knew everyone in the block, and none of them looked the part of a gangster. A proper lout wouldnt have the cash for a Rover, let alone a fancy one.
She went on, Martha from flat 43 was taken in by the kids. Shes weak now, cant walk, asthmas gotten her down
After a dull catalogue of ailments we finally got to the point: a grandson had moved into flat 43 and was doing some renovations. The smell of trouble was in the air, and I bolted for the lift to show the thief his place was far from my geraniums. When I rang the doorbell, no one answered. The car stayed there, the doors stayed shut, and I knocked on the cold leathercovered door, wondering if the bloke simply couldnt hear the bell.
I slipped a note under the door: Dear unknown, please remove your filthy vehicle from my flower beds at once, or I wont be responsible for the consequences. I left it politely, but firmly.
The next day the Rover still cast its shadow over my beloved geraniums, and my nerves were frayed. I ran into Mrs. Lucy on the street. Did the bandit from flat 43 show up today? I asked.
No, but he drove another car for a few hours and left, she replied. Hes not the driver; hes the boss, I think.
Why would a boss leave his metal bucket to ruin my flowers? I demanded.
Give him a call, she suggested. He left his number just in case. She explained that the man didnt drive, someone else did probably a manager.
I dialled the number, my voice a low growl. Did you get my note? I asked.
Got it, came the deep, calm reply.
Whats stopping you from moving your bucket from my beds?
Youve missed the magic word, he answered coolly.
Im asking you nicely one last time move that thing, I said, trying to keep my temper in check. His voice was oddly soothing, and it dulled my fury a little.
He laughed. I wont. Its convenient for me, and I didnt even park on the flower beds.
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 unmoved. Id have to resort to my triedandtrue methods for dealing with pests and uncooperative neighbours. By the next morning the Rovers onceshiny paint was speckled with the wheat Id tossed on the roof the night before. Birds circled the bonnet, pecking at the bits of grain Id scattered. The owner, a tall, stocky, bald man the classic bandit type stood there, baffled. I wasnt scared; Id handled worse.
But my victory was shortlived. By evening the car was clean again, wheels exactly over the curb, leaving black tyre marks the size of the scars on my heart. It was a declaration of war.
I stormed back inside, nearly tripping over a mangy cat with a fish clamped in its jaws. Take that fish to flat 43! I snarled at the feline, and a sudden thought struck me. All night the whole block was restless cats from every street corner had gathered in our hallway, converging on flat 43 and putting on a concert. A tiny bottle of valerian tincture Id splashed on the brown leather door panel had driven them wild. They roamed the stairwell, banged doors, and snarled at the neighbour upstairs. Their howls echoed like a balm over the fresh wounds on my heart. By morning the roof of the Rover was littered with bird droppings not from a stranger, but from my own cleverness. I even added ketchupstained sanitary pads to the rearview mirror for extra effect.
The neighbour finally fetched his Jeep, and as I headed to the shop I brushed the geranium bush, feeling a small triumph. Yet when I got back inside the flat, my key refused to turn. Half an hour later I realised some mischievous hand must have tampered with the lock. I called a locksmith, who prised the lock apart and extracted a stray matchstick lodged inside.
Hungry, angry and determined, I plotted my next stunt. Leaving matchsticks in a lock was unforgivable, so I googled where to buy Salicylate and ordered a stash.
The next morning was calm no cats screeched, I slept soundly, brewed a strong cup of coffee imported from Italy, and nearly dropped the mug when a massive knock came at the door. Someone of enormous strength was standing there. I opened it to find a bloke who could have been a younger version of a certain notorious Russian politician, only with a shaved head, poisongreen jeans and a bright green Tshirt. He shuffled in without removing his muddy boots, and I was momentarily speechless.
He poured a splash of my aloebased dishwashing liquid onto his hand and began washing it at the sink.
Couldnt you have done that at home? he asked without looking up.
Come closer, he muttered, still scrubbing.
I, still clutching a packet of Salicylate, smeared the car door handles with a coat of Vaseline. He finished washing, dried his hands on a pristine kitchen towel meant only for cups, then lifted his nose and sniffed the air.
Smells like coffee, he said, taking my mug and sipping. Delicious. Ill forgive you this once.
I wanted to punch him, but his warm eyes and the faint smile that creased his cheeks softened something inside me.
Youre quite the witch, he said after a pause, eyeing the messy flat.
Enough of your chatter! I snapped. Your compliments are useless, and I dont need butterflies in my stomach from your stare. My anger flared like a hairdryer on full blast. I didnt stuff any matchsticks in your lock! I protested. Youre playing with it like a teenager.
He shrugged. Im just here for the coffee.
Im not paying for the locksmith, I retorted, brandishing the receipt from the fridge. If this goes to court, Ive got proof.
It wasnt me, he shook his head. If not you, then who?
Our eyes met, his damp hair falling over his shoulders, and for a moment the ridiculous romance faded, replaced by a practical thought a third pest had entered our little drama.
How about a truce? he suggested, extending a hand. Until we sort out whos been fooling around.
Only if the Jeep moves at least half a metre, I replied, tapping the table.
The next day the bandit appeared again at my door, this time ringing the bell politely. He opened the door with a grin.
Theres a dog poo on your mat, he said, pointing. Ive stepped on mine already, so watch out.
He swiped my coffee cup, fetched his phone and said, Ready to see whos been haunting us?
It turned out our neighbour Sergei had called the building manager yesterday, and cameras were installed in the hallway. The footage landed in his email inbox. We gathered around his phone and watched as Mrs. Lucy, in a burst of fury, flung presents through our front door. We replayed it three times, shaking our heads in disbelief.
Ill talk to her, Sergei said. Ill drop by this evening.
Ill listen, I agreed, surprisingly willing to give someone else the initiative for the first time.
That evening, nervous, I baked chocolate biscuits a bit of a guilty pleasure and set a plate on the table. Sergei arrived after work, his eyes scanning the kitchen.
Got any cocoa? he asked, reaching for a biscuit.
Yes, I answered, opening the cupboard.
He noticed the crooked kitchen cabinet doors. Looks like the hinges are loose. Want a hand?
Sure, I said, eager for some compensation for my nerves. What about Mrs. Lucy?
She just laughed it off. She thought the music in flat 44 was too loud and tried to get back at them by swapping the carpets.
Twice? I asked, incredulous.
It was a shock to me too, Sergei admitted. I dont really hold a grudge against Lucy, but Ill still have to sort out the door hinges and the squeaky bathroom door. A single lonely blokes flat does need a few fixes, dont you think?
