I have new neighbours, both in the flat beside me and in the flat above me. I rarely meet any of my neighbours, which is the way I like it, but I did meet both of my old beside- and above-neighbours and they were jolly decent blokes. And well-behaved and quiet, with no obvious bad habits. The last three years have therefore been really rather pleasant, living in an oasis of calm despite my proximity to one railway line and two major trunk roads. The worst intrusion either of my old neighbours ever directed through my walls was a puddle of water, and that had initially come from the flat above them and they were deeply apologetic about it. And now they've moved out. The great Neighbour Lottery machine has been switched on, the balls have dropped and my random replacements have been selected. There are no jackpot winners this week.
The flat beside me is now home to two women, both of whom smoke. Being fairly sensible women they don't like nasty cigarette smoke in their house so they sit out on the balcony and smoke their rollups there. Alas their smoke then wafts into my flat even if the door to my bit of the balcony is closed, which at this time of year it usually isn't. Their balcony, though small, used to be neat and tidy with well-kept hanging baskets. Now it's home to a wide selection of garish ladies' clothing hanging out to air, plus a cheap green plastic table on which sits a 50p lighter and an empty IKEA tealight full of cigarette ends. It's not the kind of view one might wish for.
The flat above me is now home to a couple of hippopotami. At least I assume this to be the case given the noise that now originates from just above my ceiling. The previous occupant, a keen rugby player, used to walk about his flat without making a sound. Not so the hippos who appear to be unable to move around upstairs without making the floor vibrate like a localised earthquake. Goodness knows what they're doing up there, but it probably involves jumping off the furniture and running up and down the hallway in Dr Marten boots. They held a party upstairs last weekend, flatwarming no doubt, standing out on their balcony yelling directions into a mobile phone so that other visiting hippos could find their way here. I went out for the evening - it seemed the safest thing to do. And now I have a horrible suspicion they've unpacked the hi-fi because I've heard music through the ceiling for the first time in three years. I have no idea what the music was because all I got was a thumping bassline (maybe a Flanders and Swann remix?), but hopefully they'll discover the volume switch soon. In the meantime I'm off to my parents' detached house in Norfolk for the weekend - there are no hippos there.
