Monday, April 14, 2008
WHO THE F*CK IS ALICE?
Do you get on with your next door neighbours?
The fact that very few people even know the names of their neighbours these days is often said to be an indication that civilisation is heading for the dumper. I'd say exactly the opposite. I hate community, Neighbourhood Watch and anyone who tells you their life story when all you want to do is mow your lawn in peace and quiet.
My parents and our next door neighbours were as thick as thieves. Well, kind of. Mr & Mrs Next Door obviously basked in the glow of the fact that they were sophisticates compared to my parents. Mr Next Door worked as an electrician, whereas my dad was a former coalminer and unskilled factory worker. One of their children had been to grammar school.
I can remember one interminable evening's entertainment round at their house, watching a slide show of their holiday in Spain.
We sat around eating sandwiches (They'd pulled out all the stops. The sandwich filling was *proper*, two-inch-thick sliced ham - even more middle class than Ye Olde Oake Hamme and way outside my normal culinary remit. Oh, and they had chunks of *proper*, boiled for fifteen hours beetroot on the side of the plates!).
Glasses of sherry were passed around among the adults. I wish I could have partaken, just to soften the blow of the boredom.
The slide show lasted for about three days. I don't know if they were aiming for the effect of those Andy Warhol films where nothing much happens for hours on end, but it's quite possible.
Mr Next Door added a few sophisticated asides while smoking a pipe. It was obvious that he saw himself as a cosmopolitan, Cliff Michelmore type.
We learned that the Spanish drink Sangria. Mr And Mrs Next Door had also been to a bullfight.
Mrs Next Door didn't even suggest that people in mainland Europe *went to the bathroom in the gutter* or didn't wash their hands before preparing food. For the mid 1970's, this was pretty advanced behaviour.
We emerged from next door into the daylight, exhausted, dusty and tearful.
My parents muttered something about Mr & Mrs Next Door attempting to "keep up with the Joneses", of course, and said that going abroad on holiday was a waste of time anyway.
From that point on, I vowed never to make friends with the people who lived next door to me.
I have been proved right.
On Sunday morning, the bloke who lives on one side of our house was doing some gardening and he was topless.
Topless gardening, on a chilly April morning. He either thinks he is Iggy Pop, or has a chest like LC, or is mad.
People who live next door to you: give 'em a wide berth.
After years of people in the maisonettes and houses around us moving after a short period of time things are a bit more settled in our cul de sac. Best of all, we're not having any ongoing arguments with anyone, and, even better, they don't want to be our friends.
Finding that balance with neighbours is an ideal state. You say hello to them when you see them outside, but it doesn't develop into a half hour conversation.
The fact that very few people even know the names of their neighbours these days is often said to be an indication that civilisation is heading for the dumper. I'd say exactly the opposite. I hate community, Neighbourhood Watch and anyone who tells you their life story when all you want to do is mow your lawn in peace and quiet.
My parents and our next door neighbours were as thick as thieves. Well, kind of. Mr & Mrs Next Door obviously basked in the glow of the fact that they were sophisticates compared to my parents. Mr Next Door worked as an electrician, whereas my dad was a former coalminer and unskilled factory worker. One of their children had been to grammar school.
I can remember one interminable evening's entertainment round at their house, watching a slide show of their holiday in Spain.
We sat around eating sandwiches (They'd pulled out all the stops. The sandwich filling was *proper*, two-inch-thick sliced ham - even more middle class than Ye Olde Oake Hamme and way outside my normal culinary remit. Oh, and they had chunks of *proper*, boiled for fifteen hours beetroot on the side of the plates!).
Glasses of sherry were passed around among the adults. I wish I could have partaken, just to soften the blow of the boredom.
The slide show lasted for about three days. I don't know if they were aiming for the effect of those Andy Warhol films where nothing much happens for hours on end, but it's quite possible.
Mr Next Door added a few sophisticated asides while smoking a pipe. It was obvious that he saw himself as a cosmopolitan, Cliff Michelmore type.
We learned that the Spanish drink Sangria. Mr And Mrs Next Door had also been to a bullfight.
Mrs Next Door didn't even suggest that people in mainland Europe *went to the bathroom in the gutter* or didn't wash their hands before preparing food. For the mid 1970's, this was pretty advanced behaviour.
We emerged from next door into the daylight, exhausted, dusty and tearful.
My parents muttered something about Mr & Mrs Next Door attempting to "keep up with the Joneses", of course, and said that going abroad on holiday was a waste of time anyway.
From that point on, I vowed never to make friends with the people who lived next door to me.
I have been proved right.
On Sunday morning, the bloke who lives on one side of our house was doing some gardening and he was topless.
Topless gardening, on a chilly April morning. He either thinks he is Iggy Pop, or has a chest like LC, or is mad.
People who live next door to you: give 'em a wide berth.
Labels: keeping up with the Joneses, Mr and Mrs, neighbours, sangria, Spain
