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In these days of outrage and aggression, I like to think I'm a laid-back, respectable cove.
You're never likely to see me on one of those Channel Five documentaries about "Neighbours from Hell" because I don't deliberately go out of my way to annoy my neighbours. No all night rowdy parties with guests relieving themselves on next door's drive or cluttering the fence with empties, no loud expletive-ridden outbursts (unless you count the gardening or my attempts at DIY, and who doesn't say "F*ck" when they hit their thumb with the hammer or strim over the toe of their trainers?). No watering the plants with my cock and balls on full show, just as the vicar arrives for tea. No crap eighties 'Terry and June' farces about having the boss over for dinner and then apologising mirthlessly for 'the bloke next door'.
So it came as a surprise, to put it mildly, that another neighbour caught me last Tuesday as I washed the car and engaged me in conversation, keeping at least six foot away but coming closer when he realised I couldn't hear his whispered gossip. Apparently, the people next door have complained to my other neighbours about me. Or, to be accurate, about Tel and his leaving his diesel van running on Monday evening while he nipped in to hand me back the pair of sunglasses I left at his last weekend.
"She" said the neighbour, indicating next door with a jerk of his head reminiscent of someone in the latter stages of an epileptic episode "She says she got one of her heads 'cos of the noise from your friend's van last night". It struck me as incongruous to say the least. Tel's van isn't a traction engine for one thing. He wasn't revving it. I've actually broken wind louder than that.
Mollified by my tone and inclined to be matey, he stepped a bit closer. "Bloody mad if you ask me" he said in a voice that dropped several octaves and with a furtive look at my neighbour's property, just in case he could be seen or heard fraternising with the enemy. "I mean, I was in last night and I'm closer to yours. I never heard a thing. She's just jealous you get visitors".
Now, to some, this would be the sort of pettiness that would be laughed off. But I was quite hurt. I haven't told Tel. He'd just consider it an outrage and, before you knew it, he'd be round there, making the glass in their front door rattle. No, best not. Still, it's all a bit hurtful. I hate causing a fracas.
Tel came back on Friday, driven by Mrs Tel. I'd got the curry. The restaurant now allows you in (masked, which they hand you. They smell like Bombay Mix). You're allowed to stand in the waiting area, two people max. You're allowed a half of lager while you wait. The staff, all masked and sporting white plastic aprons, remind you of a surgeon's briefing before a tricky appendectomy. They even answer the phone in their masks. You can usually only understand one word in five they say when unencumbered. Now, it's impossible, and several calls were repeated orders, with the caller growing more and more urgent as the menu items were repeated ('No, number fifty-two, the mushroom rice' I heard one shout as the staff member patiently asked if they wanted extra chips with their lamb balti).
Indian meal safely home and Tel prowling the bags armed with a bottle of Estrella and a plate, we discussed his week. "Wife wants a noo pair o'sunglasses" he mumbled, mouth filled with pakoras. "Shops are openin' next week so she'll probly gettem in Fennick's in Colchester. She wants them Ray Bens. She's gotta perfect pair'o' Channel ones already but she don't like 'em. Says they make er look like a fly".
The butterfly prawns were the size of maracas. It was mostly breadcrumb. Tel did his best Bez out of Happy Mondays impression with them. You usually get three to an order; we had these two. I didn't fancy one after all, so I had the prawn puri and Tel ate both, once he'd separated prawn flesh from breadcrumb. His plate looked like it had gone down with severe smallpox.
Tel's been asked to work an overnighter in Oxford on Thursday/Friday. "Lee, one of the drivers, is off work wiv an 'ernia". Who's she? I asked. "Nah, 'ernia, you know, can't lift anyfing 'eavy, 'as to wear a support like a girdle, looks like 'e should be playin' Mrs Miniver in one'o'them plays". He sniffed and took a swig of beer. "Bleedin' unlucky is Lee. One of 'is nuts is undescended an' all. 'E reckons 'is ballsack looks like a turkey's neck". I swallowed my mouthful of chicken vindaloo with difficulty.
Work is nearly at an end for him. "The wife's me main concern now. Geddin' under 'er feet at 'ome. I'm findin' excuses ter nip darn Tesco's more an' more. That an' the reduction in income. Still, could be worse. I could be dead or summink. This corona's comin' to a head now they're lettin' the ole hoi ploy out. Footy starts next week'n'all, although not for you lot. You'll be 'appier, knowing' the Town can't screw up any more weekends for yer".
Brandied to the hilt and chucking pearls of wisdom like empty bottles ("I've gone off toast. Just went off it. I 'ave fruit and yoghurt for breakfast. 'Ad a bit of toast week before last an' 'ad 'eartburn all mornin'. Must've been a bad bit. They add gunpowder to white bread, d'you know that? 'Elps it toast better. Jim down the pub told me that an' 'e used ter work as a driver fer Hovis) Mrs Tel arrived. I had a moment of panic as she tooted her horn, imagining the curtains twitching next door. Tel invited me round to his next Saturday for a Chinese. "I'll be knackered after the all nighter" he said, the tone of martyrdom competing with the thrill of having Monday and Tuesday off the following week to make up for it.
He climbed in the car and they left. Someone (could only have been Tel) beeped the horn in the '2-4-6-8 who do we appreciate?' stanza and they drove away, Tel's arm lifted out of the car window in farewell. I waved back, then returned to my door, looking apprehensively at next door for the severe face at a window or the shuffling steps away from the front door to meet me and remonstrate. But all was darkness.
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