The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…

Annoying Neighbour

Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight! Do you think I dont notice who you keep ogling?

So, youre feeling jealous, are you? I asked, rather taken aback. Well, I see who youve got your eye on! I know what Ill be getting you for Christmasa lip-roller, so you can finally roll those lips back in where they belong!

Why not keep it for yourself? Jean retorted, not letting me have the last word. Or are your lips beyond help these days? You think I havent noticed?

Shaking my head, I let out a sigh, slid my feet off my creaky old bed, and shuffled to my makeshift prayer cornerjust photos of places I liked and Mums old Biblemuttering my morning prayers.

To be fair, I wouldnt call myself especially religious. Of course, there must be *something* up theresurely someones in charge? But who, and whatwell, thats anyones guess.

Over the years, Ive heard all sorts: the universe, first cause, and, naturally, God with a capital G. That jolly old gent in the clouds, whose job it is to care about the lot of us bumbling about down here.

And, seeing as Im now pushing seventy, it seemed wise not to pick a fight with the Almighty. After all, if Hes *not* there, believers lose nothing. But if He *is* there, you wouldnt want to be on the outside looking in.

As I finished my prayers, I added a few words for myselfas you do. Ritual complete, soul feeling a bit lighter, time to face another day.

Youd think my main problems were the usualrubbish roads and the odd idiot driver you get in any English village. Not so. My true troubles were my neighbour Jean and, of course, my own grandchildren.

Grandkids, bless them, are fairly straightforward. Youngsters these days would rather scroll on their phones than lift a finger. Fortunately, their parents can deal with themIve earned my rest.

Handling Jean, though, was another matter entirely. Shed perfected the art of nerve-wrecking, village-style!

Inside the telly dramas, the banter between dames like Joan Collins and Maggie Smith looks charming. In real life, its anything but amusingespecially when the complaints never quite make sense.

Thankfully, I had an allyPeter, or, as everyone called him, Pete-Bike. Officially, hes Peter Edwin Cartera name to remember in our sleepy patch of Wiltshire.

His nicknames no mystery: as a young man, Pete was never happier than whizzing through the lanes on his old motorbikethough he always called it his bike-baby.

In time, the machine fell to bits and gathered dust in his shed. But the nickname stuckvillage life sees to that.

There was a time when we were thick as thievesPete-Bike and his wife Avril, me and my Arthur. But time ticks on, and now its just us two left, the better halves long laid to rest in the churchyard up the road.

Old habits die hard; Pete and I kept our friendship ticking. Known him since school. Salt of the earth, that one.

Back then, we were a triome, Pete, and Jean. Pure friendshipno hint of childish romance. Wed wander the lanes arm-in-arm, Pete in the middle like a prized teapot with a handle on each side.

Over time, it all changed. Admittedly, things first slid when Jean lost her husband. After that, warmth and laughter slowly gave way to bitterness, then, inevitably, to open vexation.

Like some cartoon, I often thoughtdid someone swap Jean overnight?

People change, sure. If youre a little tight with money, you get tighter. If you talk a lot, you end up a gossip. A jealous soul gets torn apart by their own envy.

Thats likely what happened to Jean. Us old ducks are the same everywhere, and men arent any better.

To be jealous of me, thoughI struggled to see why.

Ive kept my figure, more or less, though the years have crept up. Jean, meanwhile, had taken on the shape of an overstuffed cushiona world away from her youthful self.

And lately, Pete seemed to pay more attention to me than her. Hed pop round for a natter, and wed end up giggling over nothing, grey heads nearly bumping. With Jean, the chat was always brief, stiff, and polite.

Shed have to go out of her way to get Petes attention, while hed drop in for tea with me as a matter of course.

Maybe I was a bit sharper, and my jokes less forced than Jeans. Pete always did enjoy a good laugh.

In English, theres a cracking word for folks who bother you over any old thingnitpicker. Jean had turned into the villages reigning queen of nitpickers.

Her first complaint? The location of my outdoor loo and the supposed stench wafting her way.

That composting toilet of yours stinks to high heaven! she bellowed one morning.

Since when? I shot back, not prepared to take it lying down. Its been in the same spot for decades. Only noticing now, are you? Besides, you only got those new glasses on the NHS. Cant expect top quality for free, can you?

Leave my glasses out of it! Jean shrieked again. You should be more concerned about your own eyesight! I know *exactly* whose company youre enjoying!

So it went, tit for tat. And yes, I saw everything, bless you, Jean.

After one especially bothersome bout, I mentioned it to Pete. He suggested the obviousmove the loo inside!

After a quick family whip-round, my son and daughter managed to put in an indoor loo for me. Pete-Eddie tackled the old waste pit himselfsorted! See if you can find something else to moan about, Jean.

It didnt take longnext, she had a go at my grandkids, accusing them of stripping pears from her tree where the branches arched over onto my plot.

They probably thought it was ours! I tried, though in truth, not a single pear had been touched.

Your hens are forever scratching up my flower beds, mind! I pointed out.

Hens are thick! she shouted back. And children need proper discipline, not giggling and dithering about with old bachelors!

On and on it wentalways back to Pete.

The grandkids caught a talking-to, pears stopped falling, so youd think that little storm had blown over. Not quite. Suddenly, some of the overhanging branches were damaged, according to Jean.

Where, exactly? I asked, scanning for evidence and seeing none.

There and there! she jabbed her knotty finger into thin air. I quietly thanked Mum for passing along these neat little hands of minefingers long and straight, even now in old age.

Hands are part of a womans image, Ive always thought. Village or not, prides pride.

Pete suggested cutting back the branchesto which I protested, Shell shout the roof off!

She wont dare, Pete promised. Ill make sure of it.

And it was trueJean saw Pete out there with the saw, clear as daylight, but didnt say a word.

With the pear tree trimmed, a new round of complaints began: her chickens digging up my veg beds. Jean had some fancy new breed this year, cleverer than last years.

Whats a chicken, really? Just a scatterbrain, scratching up seedlings left and right.

When asked to keep her birds home, Jean just gave me that smirk of hersa silent What are you gonna do about it?

The thought did cross my mind: snatch a couple and roast them up for supper! But even I couldnt go that far.

Pete, sharp as ever, found a tip onlineplace eggs on the veg beds at night, then next morning, gather them in plain sight, letting Jean think her birds were laying where they shouldnt.

Hed always been handy with a computer, even in a little place like ours.

Sure enough, it worked! Thanks, World Wide Webnever thought the day would come.

Jean stood rooted to the spot, watching as I whisked up her eggs with a smug little grin, basket full.

Her chickens never strayed my way again.

Peace at last? Not on your life. Soon enough, Jean started on about the smoke from my garden kitchen, wafting over when I cooked outside in autumn.

Of course! It hadnt bothered her yesterday, but todayoh, the trauma! Maybe she was a vegetarian, suddenly? Or maybe shed read that Parliament was about to ban all garden bonfires!

Where have you seen a barbecue? I tried to reason with her. And you might give those glasses a wipe once in a while, you know!

My patience thinned. Jean was just impossibleanother fine English word for it. She simply wouldnt let up.

Shall we hand her over for medical research? I moaned to Pete over tea one day. Shell be the death of me!

The daily stress was whittling me awayId never felt so thin or washed-out.

Shell choke first! Pete promised, And I wont let it come to that. Ive got a better idea.

Two mornings later, I heard singing outside.

Tammy, Tammycome out and play! warbled Pete, all grins, astride his oldnow newly-repairedmotorcycle.

Know why I looked so glum lately? Pete boomed. My bikes been gathering dust, but nowwere back in business! Come on, beautiful, hop on! Lets relive old times!

So I did! After all, times have changedretirement age in Parliaments books means sixty-five is just getting started these days!

I set offnot just down the lane, but into a new adventure.

And you know what? Before long, I became Mrs. CarterPete proposed, and I joyfully said yes.

Everything finally clicked into place. I moved in with Pete, his cottage now my new home.

And Jeanwell, shes still there. Lonely, plumper than ever, and positively stewing with resentment. If thats not a fresh serving of envy, I dont know what is.

No more sparring partner for hershell have to keep the bile inside, unless she finds someone else willing to put up with her moaning.

If youre listening, Tammymaybe steer clear of Jean for a bit. Who knows what else is in store? Ah, life in the English countryside. Never a dull moment.

And to thinkall that fuss over a toilet!