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Our neighbour, the fruit loop

People are weird. I’m weird. You’re weird. Mr T is weird.

Me? I colour code my books and clothes. And every now and then I have the mother of all cleaning frenzies. Mr T loathes mashed potato and baked beans. You? I’m not sure but you know you’re a weirdo too.

We all have our little quirks and habits, and that’s fine. Sometimes they have a negligible impact, sometimes they make you want to gouge the culprit’s eyes out with a melon baller and others are downright endearing. But what’s endearing to one will infuriate another.

Mostly though, we can tolerate each other. However, when you come into frequent and close contact with someone, that’s when things start to go awry. No. This isn’t a rant about Mr T. Mr T is adorable.

Hell, this isn’t even a rant about our upstairs’ neighbour, because, you know, unless you can afford a gloriously detached house in the middle of nowhere, neighbours are a fact of life.

Over the last few years I’ve experienced my fair share of neighbours – the ones who complain to your landlord for parking an extra car, ones who let their baths overflow through your ceiling – but we’ve never had neighbours from hell; this latest batch are undeniably weird though.

First up, and most important to note, is their flat clearly has a wooden floor. Secondly they’re obviously not aware of how this magnifies their movements.

I’m guessing someone suffers from insomnia as we can hear a rowing machine (we’re guessing) going at all hours, as well as a blender, some sort of interval training sprints, and general high heels. If we were that bothered, we’d mention it but meh, whatevs.

Yesterday though, they qualified for full weirdo status. I was working from home. My doorbell rang. It was a UPS guy with a parcel with the flat above. Could I take it in as they weren’t answering their bell? Yeah, of course; no problem, except, I could hear someone pottering around upstairs. Anyway, I got on with my work (yes, really), and then when I was ready to walk into town, I thought, since I could still hear someone upstairs I’d pop up and drop the parcel off.

So off I went, upstairs, and knocked on the door. I could hear noises from within, but no one came to answer the door. Perhaps they hadn’t heard me? So I knocked again. This time I could hear someone right behind the door, breathing.

Now, I suppose I could have just plonked the parcel down and washed my hands of it, but I was intrigued. So I knocked again. Loudly and for a while. Still no answer, but still the breathing behind the door. Creepy!

Then I shouted, ‘Hi! It’s Betsy, from the flat below. I have a parcel for you.’

There was a noticeable pause, and then, from right behind the door came a woman’s voice, ‘Oh. Sorry, I’ve just got out of the shower. Can you just leave it there?’

Yeah; sure. Just got out of the shower and been standing dripping wet and naked behind your front door while you breath heavily at me. Standard. So I put the parcel down, and off I toddled, firm in my opinion that yes, our neighbours are fruit loops.

(Oh, and if you’re reading this, Upstairs Neighbour of Mine, I’m sure you’re lovely really, and perfectly nice and normal, and please don’t egg my car.)

 

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