My Neighbour Always Borrowed Salt, Sugar, and Eggs Without Returning Them—So When She Asked for Flour, I Gave Her a Bill for Everything She Owed

There is an old English saying: A fool and his goods are soon parted. I used to think it a touch dramatic, but the passage of time gently schooled me in its underlying truth.

Some years ago, a new neighbour moved in just across the hallabout forty years of age, well turned out, always cheerful when we crossed paths outside the lift. We exchanged pleasantries in that quintessentially English manner: polite, reserved, never intrusive.

The first knock on my door came a fortnight after her arrival. It was around nine in the evening. I opened the door, and there stood Elizabeth, wearing a sheepish smile and holding a small, empty bowl.

Oh, I am sorry to trouble you, she chirped. Would you believe it, I fancied making pancakes and realised Im completely out of salt! Might I borrow just a pinch? Ill return it first thing tomorrow, I promise!

Well, who could refuse such a harmless request? I poured out half the salt cellar for her, she thanked me profusely, and off she went.

But her second visit soon followed. Just a few days later, she appeared againthis time, in need of sugar.

I fancied a cuppa, she confided, bundled up in a dressing gown, but its bucketing down outside and so late Might I have a cupful? Ill buy a big bag tomorrow and bring it by!

Though I gave it freely, a twinge of doubt slipped in. Surely after almost a month of living here, shed have picked up the basic staplessalt, sugar, oil, matches, the sort of ordinary items everyone has. Still, I let it go.

Over the following weeks, Elizabeths needs became routine: eggs, followed by cooking oil, then an onion, half a lemon, a teabag, a headache tableteven a roll of loo paper.

The scene was always the same: dusk, a slightly guilty smile, a tale about how shed forgotten to pick it up, and a promise to return it tomorrow. But nothing she borrowed ever found its way back to me. Her memory was curious: she always remembered I was usually home, yet consistently forgot her debts the moment my door closed.

Once, I found myself in need of a carrot for soup. Knowing she was in, I knocked and made my request. She listened, then adopted a look of innocent regret.

Oh, I do have one, but Im planning a meal myself, and it really wouldnt be enough if I gave any away. Sorry.

With that, she closed her door.

This was the turning point. Evidently, my pantry was public domain, but her carrot was a strategic reserve? From that moment, I resolvedno more handouts.

I fetched a notebook and, from memory, listed everything she had borrowed: sugar, eggs, coffee, oil, onion, tablet, lemon, washing powderit all added up. When I tallied the items by their rough cost, the sum was around £20.

I slipped the paper into the hall table drawerI suspected its moment would soon come. And indeed, not long after, that day arrived.

It was a Saturday, and I was preparing to bake a cake. Just as I preheated the oven, there came a knock. Peering through the spy hole, I saw Elizabeth, holding a mixing bowl.

I took a deep breath, put on a cordial smile, and opened the door.

Hello there! she chattered brightly. Do me a favour? Im trying to make some drop scones, nearly out of milk, but havent a scrap of flour left! Could I borrow about 300 grams? Ill pay you back, of course!

Flour? Yes, I do have some.

Oh, wonderful! You know Ill see you right!

Absolutely, Lizzie. But first, lets take stock of our little grocery partnership so far.

I handed her the list Id prepared. She blinked, momentarily baffledit was the first time Id presented anything but blind generosity.

Look here, I said, pointing out each line. Ive kept track of what youve borrowed these past two months. Shall we make sure we agree? Fifteen eggs, correct?

Um I really couldnt say she stammered, her smile flickering.

But I can. Four cups of sugar, oil, coffee, powder, lemon, onionits all here, yes?

She was silent, her confusion quickly souring into annoyance. How dare I? We were neighbours, werent we?

Ive calculated the value at average pricesgave you a bit of a discount, too. All told: £19.

Extending my hand, I concluded, Once we settle up, Ill happily measure out your flour. I can even sieve it!

Youre joking? she gasped. A bill? For salt and matches? Are you serious?

Quite, yes, I replied plainly. If you take it intending to return, fair enough. But if you dont, its a purchase. Im simply asking to be paid for the goods.

Youre so petty! She threw up her hands. I thought we had a neighbourly understandingand you such a miser!

Petty is having enough for a takeaway, but not enough for your own loo roll, I answered evenly.

Her face burned crimson. Keep your bloody flour! she snapped. Ill not bother you again!

She spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her. I stood there, list in hand, quite unruffledin fact, I felt a curious sense of relief.

Its been a fortnight since. Elizabeth no longer greets me; in the lift, she turns away and pretends to be engrossed in her phone. I heard her grumbling to the caretaker about the mean-spirited, peculiar folk in our building.

What would you have done in my place? Would you have put up with it?