Suburban secrets; one never knows…

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Still unemployed, but don’t worry, this post isn’t about my job hunting larks.

However, being unemployed does have a fun side to it, because I get to look out of the lounge window when I am trawling the job sites, and let my imagination loose as I watch what goes on outside.

So join me as I lift the lid off what my neighbours get up to.  Disclaimer: this post is embellished with the richness of my imagination and is a work of fiction, because let’s face it, the reality is too painful.

First there is the house opposite, split into two flats.  The ground floor occupant prefers to live his life in the half-light of covert despair, wandering about bumping into the furniture, his body covered in the bruises of stupidity as he fears his secret stash of ill-gotten gains will be discovered.  He ventured into his garden recently and chopped down the branches of a tree, but I knew what he was up to and the tree is likened to the X on a treasure map; it marks the spot.  I shall say no more…

Above him, one half of a couple wages war on the local cat population that dare to vacate their bowels on his manicured front garden.  He prunes and snips and sprinkles cat repelling particles on the plants and shrubs that do nothing to repel them!  And he thinks that by suddenly ripping open the curtains of his bedroom and standing there topless shouting and gesticulating at said felines will do the trick.  Well, the furry four-legged fiends just look at the hairless creature and think “Man, that is one Hollywood wax that’s gone to far” and continue to lick their orifices .  Man’s new trick is to place a clothes horse in the window and display his collection of pants and socks in various colour coded positions, at different times of the day but always at a jaunty angle.  Silly man, that won’t stop the cats but it is a signal to a neighbour, an unwanted signal, but a signal just the same…

I watched a woman return from shopping yesterday and there was a covert entry into a building if ever I saw one!  No matter though, because as much as she tried to hide it, I spied the rather large baguette peeking out from under her arm and from that moment I knew.  I knew that she had not been watching or taking notice of a certain Liverpudlian baker that has just finished a TV series, as the baguette was (whispers and looks around to check that no one is listening) shop bought.  There, I’ve said it.  It’s out there in the public domain now missus and the Famous One knows it as well as he had a helicopter watching your every movement.  Take the shame lady, take the shame…

Now, here is an interesting fellow: bright jumper, two dogs.  Never have two dogs been walked so often during the day. He is the Pied Piper of the dog walkers as once his jumper is out there, they all come, pulling their dogs behind them, falling over themselves to be the first to reach him on the march around the park.  Sadly, the slowest are never seen again.  I hear the plaintive call of his flute as he gathers them to him from near and far.  I’m not going to speculate on where he keeps the flute though…

And how has this happened that the family of four opposite has suddenly morphed into a young couple?  Where did they go and why?  Were they eaten up by the huge clump of pampas grass that grows in front of the window?  Is it a gateway into another dimension?  Am I doomed to never see the kids grow up but forever wonder why their parents don’t age?  Will I never get to know what kind of cake the boy has for his birthday?  Did the young couple eat them for their anti aging properties?  Will I ever stop asking bloody questions about them…?

My downstairs neighbour is a lifelong member of a secret Order.  That most secret of Orders which was formed in 1856 in a cave somewhere on the Isle of Man, when the moon was full and there was no R in the month.  An Order so secret that there is no secret handshake or facial tic to use so that you can recognise other members.  An Order so secret that you will be forever led to believe that you are its only member and are doomed to wonder for eternity if you will ever get invited to the AGM knees up.  He belongs to the secret Order of Thou Shalt Never Open Thy Curtains.  Ever.  He is a proud servant to this Order and has never wavered from that rule once, for to do so would be to risk expulsion because one never knows when one is being watched and one can never, ever risk the shame of disobedience of said rule.  For that is the only rule to be obeyed and the reason for your existence.  His other quirk is that when he upgrades his cars, the new car always has flat tyres…

So, never underestimate what goes on around you, because there are secrets behind every door, in every street, in every town, in every… Sod it, you get the drift.

*breaks out into maniacal laughter, fade to stop*

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Love Thy Neighbour

I live in a flat.

It’s a small flat and needs quite a bit of work doing to it but its mine and I happen to like it.  I am sandwiched between two other flats whose occupants are quiet and respectful of those around them – like I am.

HOWEVER, IT’S THE FUCKING NEIGHBOURS THAT ARE CAUSING ME PROBLEMS!

Houses today seem to be built with walls that are the thickness of tissue paper and houses built many moons ago, like those in my road, may have walls that are the thickness of cardboard, so there is some muting of sounds, but not that much.

The woman in the flat next door has her lounge on the other side of my bedroom, so of course when her TV is on, I get to share her love of soap operas echoing around the room AT TWO IN THE MORNING (why is it always at that time?) and I also have the privilege of listening to her landline telephone messages, which is nice, and as a return favour I write them down – just in case she has missed anything important.

The above I can cope with, just, but why oh why must she conduct her sex life in her lounge at that time of the night when I am asleep and wake me up?  What’s wrong with the sodding bedroom?  Does Coronation Street or Eastenders really make you want to get down and dirty with your boyfriend?

Apparently yes, because that’s where they perform and it certainly is a performance.  She grunts more than any tennis player that has played at Wimbledon.  She is also considerate enough to let me know when her train is arriving and enthusiastically works her way up to the doors opening and passengers alighting with a noise reminiscent of old engine whistles.  (I swear she is screaming choo choo!).

Meanwhile, her B.F. must have tea bags the size of a bulls because was that really what I heard slapping about last time?  Luckily, that is as much as you’ll get from him, and why would he need to do anything else when she is making more than enough noise for the both of them!  I also hope that he doesn’t strut his stuff afterwards thinking that he is a fantastic lover by her reactions, because news flash honey, she has been like that with ALL of her boyfriends since I have lived next door to her.

I now have a set of score cards and hold up what I think is an appropriate marking afterwards and I also have a cigarette and lighter at the ready because quite frankly, I’m bloody exhausted!

Now, I know what you lot are thinking; “You’re just jealous!”  I hear you cry.  “Lonely old hag!”  Scream the news headlines.  Not at all, far from it.  Good luck to her and all who sail in her, I am happy that she has hobbies.  I just don’t want to share them that’s all!