Neighbours From Hell

I love my little house. I have loved it since the moment I saw it. It is part of a row of three cottages, but it’s a funny layout and I am fortunate that only a little part (the kitchen) is joined to next door. However, the down side is that my sitting room and my bedroom overlook the gardens. My garden, and the neighbours gardens.

I confess that, until recently, I have been rather spoiled when it comes to neighbours. When I first moved in, my immediate neighbour was a mad old woman in her 90’s who caused me no grief whatsoever. Oh, except when she built an extension in my back garden. Admittedly, that was a low point in our otherwise non existent relationship, but after a short battle, the porch was taken down and she moved to a home for the mentally ill not long after. I like to think that the two things were entirely unrelated.

After that, Trendy Tim moved in next door. He was fine - professional type - often not there. No problems at all in fact. Oh, except for the night when there was a party in the garden until 3am and I shouted at him in my pyjamas…I mean, I went out wearing pyjamas, not that he had found his way into my PJs. But basically Tim was fine, even when his girlfriend moved in, it was fine. Even though she laughed like a train and I sometimes had to turn the TV up to compensate for her enthusiasm.

I wasn’t even overly worried when Alcoholic Paul moved into next door but one, not even when he invited me round for a glass of wine and double bolted the front door once I stepped inside. I hear him ranting and raving every now and then, but he’s harmless enough.

However, it’s all spoiled now. Trendy Tim and Laughs-Like-A-Train girlfriend moved out and Mr and Mrs Chav moved in. They came complete with Chav Cat, Chav Greyhound and Chav Parentage-Unknown-Bloody-Big-Dog. As yet there is no Baby Chav, but it must surely only be a matter of time.

Mr and Mrs Chav are stuck on high when it comes to volume. They shout everything. Even when they’re not rowing. Even a simple question like “do you wanna cup of tea?” is bellowed. Mrs Chav looks (and sounds) like Vicki Pollard:

… and Mr Chav looks like Butch Dingle from Emmerdale Farm:

Enough said.

But none of this is the problem. No. The DOGS are the problem. The dogs bark and howl from dawn to… errrr…. dawn. No joke. They bark because they want to go out, and as soon as they are out, they bark because they want to go in. They bark because somebody comes in and they bark as soon as someone goes out. I am starting to suspect these are agraphobic dogs. So of course, all this barking happens right beneath my bedroom window. This morning, I was woken up at 5.45am when the poor dogs were kicked out into the tiny garden, and proceeded to howl for 40 minutes until someone let them in. 5.45am!!!! And how can anyone ignore a dog that’s howling like that? It’s beyond me.

I’m at the point where I either have to complain, or kill someone. The trouble is, I have complained about noise before, and I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory in the process. It was one morning, about 7am, when Mrs Chav opened her kitchen window (directly below my bedroom) and (a) blasted out Billy Joel’s greatest hit(s) at full volume and (b) had a bit of a sing-along. I’m afriad I snapped. Again, in my pyjamas, I stomped round to their front door, told her to switch “that bloody row” off and stomped back to bed. We haven’t spoken since. I ask you. Billy fu*king Joel.

So you see, this is not a great context in which to start complaining about the dogs. I need to handle it gently. So I have written a nice letter today and even went to buy a nice card with a picture of a dog on the front. I even went in a Chav card shop to buy it. I will put the letter inside that and see what the response is. I am half expecting every window in my house to be smashed.

More on this trauma as it unfolds. Or smashes.

More Paris Pictures

Place de Voges:

…and again:

… one more:

The Museee D’Orsay:

I liked l’elephante:

Le Metro (so clean and bright!):

Excited About Salad - Hello?!

I’m sitting in one of the many brasseries that overlook the Place de Voges. I hadn’t planned on coming back here today - my last in Paris - but the pull of the calm, serene setting proved irresistible, particularly as I spent a hectic morning in the heart of the city. For my last night, I’d booked a swanky 4 star hotel in the Opera district - Hotel Mathurins. The hotel is tres magnifique (bathroom to die for) but it’s located in a really busy place and my every thought was drowned by noise and stroppy people.

Anyway, my lunch takes the form of the most perfect salad nicoise ever (otherwise known as salad knickersee, by my friend who only learned the correct pronunciation very recently, when she ordered it on a first date and the guy killed himself laughing). I can’t put my finger on why the salad is so perfect but I was moved to take a picture:

Maybe it’s the freshness of everything, or the mustard dressing, or the fresh anchovies… maybe it’s just that everything tastes better on holiday. Whatever it is, even the pompous waiter can’t dampen my spirits as I watch sparrows hop beneath chairs, finding lunch of their own:

Do you think…

… if my blog is thinner, people will think I write more?

Oh well, spring/summer (who knows?!) is here and my little garden is looking lovely, as is my office… the place where no writing happens:

And here is the inside:

If ever I am in danger of actually writing, I like to stare out of the door instead:

And given the amazing weather we’re having, I sometimes like to not write outside:

… the other side of the table: