We have been living next door to Mr and Mrs Sourpuss for 2 and a half years. To start off with, we got on quite well; we said hello to each other and rolled each other’s wheelie bins back into their correct spots etc.
Now, I understand that Mr P and I are not the easiest people to live next door to: we like parties, sex and sing-songs around the piano. A while ago, one of our impromptu, post-pub knees-ups got cut short with a rap on the wall and a midnight visit from a be-dressing-gowned Mrs Sourpuss. She never spoke to us after that; I suspect she might be embarrassed about knocking on our door wrapped in bubblegum pink candlewick.
Mr Sourpuss remained friendly. In fact, he was sometimes a bit too friendly. Once, I had a parcel delivered to theirs when I was out. When I popped round to collect it, Mr Sourpuss gave me a wink and said “I hope it’s something sexy”. It wasn’t actually, it was a khaki military jacket but I was so bemused by his lasciviousness that I could only giggle feebly in response.
He also used to weed our front garden. This didn’t bother us; if he wanted to do extra gardening, he could, as far as we were concerned. When Mr P caught him pottering about in the back garden though, we weren’t so thrilled, although we never confronted him about it.
The other night, Mr P, the Little Chef and I rolled back to our pad after the pub and cracked open the piano. It was midnight on Good Friday. Our drunken performance of If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher was, mercifully, shortened by Mr Sourpuss yelling “Oi, Knobhead!” through the letterbox.
OK, so it was late and we were loud. Is it however necessary to holler obscenities through a neighbour’s letterbox when a rap on the wall or a request to quieten down would have done the trick?
This riled Mr P who vowed to confront Mr Sourpuss about trespassing in our back garden and promised to dust down his drum kit to give them a neighbourly performance they wouldn’t forget in a hurry. This anger soon passed though, and things went back to normal, albeit with both us and those at number 19 avoiding eye contact whenever we happened to meet.
Mr P and I were having sex the other day in bed, quite late at night (imagine! how unusual!) It was raucous, it was noisy, it was great. It was only when the screams had descended into sighs that we remembered that we had left our bedroom window open. It was only when the bed-springs had stopped creaking and post-coital cigarettes had been lit that we heard the sound of Mr and Mrs Sourpuss’ window being closed abruptly.
Now that’s what I call payback.