The front door closes, and there is a timid knock at the door to my flat. I am drinking the wine and watching Wife Swap, which I could watch indefinitely and forever.
"Come in! The door's open!", I cry.
TwatBoy appears, clasping an Iceland carrier bag and a briefcase. He looks Very Tired, and contrite. I melt immediately, and want to make him a hot water bottle.
"TwatBoy", I say, "I am very sorry I shouted at you last weekend. I know that I am Terrifying when I'm like that, and there is simply no excuse for it."
TwatBoy looks at his feet, and looks at me.
"No. I am sorry. I just ... I just ... had no idea we were making so much noise. I'm so sorry. Joe didn't know either. What is it, exactly?"
"It's the front door. And the stairs. You know, pounding and that. I know it sounds daft, but the acoustics are really weird. And I know you don't wear ladies' steel capped shoes but ..."
TwatBoy grins.
"That's what you think."
To my immense irritation, I start laughing. TwatBoy starts laughing.
"No, but seriously - what else is there?"
"Well, um, building furniture and that, awful banging, all day, and scraping. The floorboards aren't insulated, you see."
"God. I'm so sorry. Now listen, I have to go back to IKEA this weekend. I got all the wrong doors, you know, wanted plain ones and got white ones by mistake ... so there'll be more this weekend. Just to warn you. Is that OK?"
"God of course! And anyway I'm away all weekend. Now then, darling, do you want to come round for supper on Sunday?"
"Love to. Joe too?"
"Of course."
We say goodnight. He goes upstairs quietly. I sit on the sofa slightly deflated, and remember a very annoying woman (who claimed to be a psychic, as well as a stand-up comedian), who once came to a party of mine and said "nothing bad has ever happened here. It is a happy place". But if the twat has a party, I'm calling the police.
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11 comments:
I am sure he would invite you to the party.
Though I have been looking forward to the dressing down you were going to give him, I am quite pleased that you made each other laugh.
If you'd finished business with Twatboy he'd be dead...I have a feeling this tale has many more twists to come.
I've got new neighbours. Like all new neighbours they are enthusiastically DIYing. There's a wattle and daub bit of wall in my attic where I work on my computer. I don't know what he's got on his side but whatever it is he's been banging, swearing and removed something because now I can see his lights through gaps round the edges and hear him. I hope it isn't a bedroom.
I read a huge piece in, I think, the Guardian months ago about the noise pollution caused by the craze for bare floorboards. It was amazing, decibel levels and all. Why don't you try to get it off the web, and leave it on TwatBoy's plate under his chocolate mousse? And you know, they sell wonderful RUGS in Ikea. I bought two for my livng room and you'd never know where I got them.
Psychic/stand up comedian? That's worse than my coach/inspirational speaker.
Do what all writers do and use him for your million-selling novel.
WHAT novel? Oh Amanda.
Cancel your plans for the weekend, crash the party, and pick on Twatboy until he cries, hates you even more and decides to move out.
Easy.
As it goes I think he's in love with me, in a kind of Dawn French/Mrs Robinson crossover way.
That's when good neighbours become good friends...
Dirty girl! Take an order mark!
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