The Wicked Neighbour Next Door

You know how every block has that one nosy lady who shouts from her kitchen window if anyones smoking on the pavement because she smells it in her flat? She chases teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night so they dont keep anyone up, and she writes endless complaints to the housing office about the rubbish that never gets collected. If youve never met her, well, thats because shes me the dreaded neighbour.

I cant stand anyone who owns a dog. Their pooches leave clumps of dung right in my geranium and peony beds. Even worse are the folks who feed stray mutts; they not only dump the mess, they bury bones among the flowers and then howl at night so loudly you spend the next week checking the hallway for echoes, or start barking in the spring as if theyre trying to claim the whole block. Cats are just as bad the smell of a litter box drifts through their flats and, if theyre the kind that roam the back garden, its a nightmare. One time Mrs. Lotties mangy tom hopped onto my balcony and nearly gave me a heart attack when I went out to shout at the kids next door.

And dont get me started on the little gnomes the kids. I just dont see whats lovely about them or what youre supposed to do with them. Their frail, uncontrollable nature freaks me out. Once my aunt begged me to look after her fiveyearold cousin. In half an hour hed gobbled down half the teasugar with a spoon, then turned my porridge with meatballs into a splatter on the table while I was washing dishes. He found my Chanel lipstick and smeared it all over his cheek before I even realized it. Fifteen minutes later he was making a mess of the kitchen walls with tiny finger prints, and by evening his stomach was in revolt a bout of acetonelike nausea knocked him out flat. I fed him some activated charcoal, he settled, and I handed him back to a frazzled mum.

My feud with the neighbours started about fifteen years ago when an old lady in the hallway gave me a look that screamed, Youre a proper troublemaker. I snapped and began slipping every free flyer I could find into her letterbox ads for miracle health tonics, magnetic bracelets for blood pressure, you name it. Shed open her bills and be buried under a mountain of pamphlets. I even photocopied her electricity bill, added an extra zero, and watched her argue with the energy company for weeks. She was furious, but it gave me a taste for petty revenge.

Then I fought for a patch of garden under my window. After a lot of trial and error I discovered that geraniums are perfect there thieves dont steal them, drunks steer clear of the scent, and theyre hardy enough to survive the occasional stray cat. One bright morning I found a rusted old car halfsunk in my flower bed, front wheels perched on the curb, bumper looming over my red blossoms like a scythe. I marched over to Mrs. Lottie, whos always perched on the bench after her morning market run, and asked, Whose vehicle is this?

She squinted, then said, Must be some bloke from the fifth floor. I knew the bloke the one who never has enough money for a pint, let alone a proper car. And what about Marjorie on the third floor? Shes gone weak, cant even walk properly, asthmatic now, Lottie added, eyes flashing. After a boring rundown of the buildings ailments, we got to the point: the guys grandson was doing some renovation upstairs, and the car was his.

I stormed to the lift, ready to tell the driver to move his mess, but the door wouldnt open. The car was still there, the door locked. I knocked on the cold leatherupholstered panel, hoping hed hear me, but no one answered. I slipped a note under the door: Dear driver, please remove your filthy car from my geraniums immediately, or I wont be responsible for the consequences. The next day the same rusty Rclass sat there, taunting me.

I ran to Lottie. Did the bloke from the third floor show up today? I asked. She shook her head. He came in another car, stayed a few hours, then left. I was furious. So hes driving elsewhere while his battered car ruins my flowers? I demanded she call him. She gave me a number, saying the man himself didnt drive his boss did.

When I rang, a deep, calm voice answered. Got your note, he said. I tried to stay polite. Could you please move your bucket off my plants? He laughed. Im quite comfortable where it is. I didnt even touch the curb. I warned him, If you dont move it, youll regret it. He scoffed and hung up.

I tried to scorch the car with my stare, but it didnt even smoke. So I resorted to my trusty pest control kit a bit of kitchen vinegar, some pepper spray, and a dash of oldfashioned spite. The next morning the car was speckled with flour Id tossed on it the night before. A few birds were pecking at the dust, looking rather pleased. I imagined the drivers face when he saw his shiny black beast turned into a mess.

But by evening the car was clean again, tyres perfectly aligned on the curb, leaving fresh black tyre tracks right across my geraniums the exact size of the scar I felt in my heart when I saw it. It was a declaration of war, plain and simple.

I was about to head back inside when I nearly tripped over a stray cat with a dead fish clenched in its jaws. Take that fish to the third floor! I muttered, halflaughing. That night the whole block seemed to be filled with a chorus of meowing cats theyd all gathered outside the thirdfloor flat, as if staging a feline protest. Id left a little bottle of valerian on the hallway door to calm them, but it did the opposite. They strutted past, hissing at anyone who came near, and the scent of fish lingered in the air.

The next morning I found the cars roof plastered with ketchupstained hygienic pads, like some twisted art installation. The owner, a bloke I later learned was called Steve, finally showed up to collect his Rclass. I walked to the shop, patting my geraniums as if theyd earned a medal.

Back at my flat my key wouldnt turn. I wrestled with the lock for half an hour, cursing whoever had tampered with it. I finally called a locksmith, who pried the door open with a pair of matchsticks ridiculous, I know, but it worked. Hungry, angry, and slightly delirious, I plotted my next move. I Googled where to buy Salidol and ordered a bottle.

Morning came calm. The cats had finally settled, Id slept well, and I was sipping a cappuccino from a special blend Id ordered from Italy. Just as I was about to enjoy a quiet moment, the door burst open with a thud. In stood the driver a lanky, bald fellow in blue jeans and a green tee, looking like a strippeddown version of a certain former politician. He didnt bother to take off his muddy boots. He sauntered straight to the kitchen, poured a bit of my aloeinfused dish soap onto his hand and started rinsing it under the tap.

Couldnt you have done that at home? I snapped. He just smiled, shrugged, and said, Im just cleaning up. He then noticed the greasy film on his car door handles and, without a word, I smudged them all with a layer of vaseline I kept for the kitchen sink.

He paused, sniffed the air, and said, That smells like coffee. He reached for my mug, took a sip, and said, Not bad, actually. Id forgive you for the incident. I wanted to punch him, but his warm eyes and cheeky grin made me hesitate. If youve seen enough, why dont you disappear? I replied, halfjoking.

He laughed, Fair enough, and left. I felt a strange flutter in my stomach not quite anger, not quite affection. He was oddly charming, and his compliments made me feel oddly flattered. I tried to be tough, but his gaze was like a gentle breeze on a cold day.

Later that day, our building installed CCTV after Mrs. Lottie complained about mysterious gifts landing on doorsteps. The footage showed her tossing parcels into the hallway at 5a.m., and we both stared at the screen, bewildered. Ill talk to her, Steve said. Shes just trying to get back at us for the car. I agreed, surprisingly willing to give her a break.

Evening rolled around, and I baked chocolate biscuits a guilty pleasure. Steve knocked, asked if Id got any cocoa, and I sheepishly opened the cupboard. He noticed my kitchen doors were crooked. Want a hand fixing them? he offered. I said yes, hoping for compensation for my nerves. He started tinkering, and I asked about Mrs. Lottie. Shes annoyed about the music from the fourth floor, tried to mix up the carpets, he shrugged. Two times? I cant believe it.

I didnt feel much hatred toward Lottie, just a desire for a little payback. I knew Id get it eventually, once Steve repaired my cabinet doors and the squeaky bathroom door was sorted. Thats the plan for now.

So thats where I am still fighting over a rusted car in my flower bed, still exchanging snark with the bloke who drives it, still plotting tiny acts of revenge, and still trying to keep my geraniums alive. Its a proper British drama, isnt it? Anyway, just thought Id share the latest episode. Talk soon!