Tag Archives: encounter

Dick Gets Nicked

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Two blogs about our nutty neighbours in a month? It seems a little excessive. But when the story’s this good, I just have to share.

For those of you not in the loop, Susan and Dick, aka SuDick, are a pair of curtain-twitching, moaning retirees, who keep tabs on the movements of all other residents in our apartment block in the most busybody way imaginable.

Last month, a pair of new residents moved in and had a rather raucous party, which disturbed many other neighbours into the early hours. Inevitably, SuDick sprung into action the following morning; emails were flying around from as early as 8am to gather support for their nuisance tenants campaign.

Belligerent Bill (another curmudgeonly retiree of Post-It Note Parking fame) also waded in on the action – complaining direct to the council’s noise nuisance squad.

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Dick followed up the complaints with a strongly-worded letter, which he half-slipped under their door the following evening. Before the party-loving tenants arrived home, I managed to sneak a peak at the note itself (who’s the nosy neighbour now? I hear you cry).

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Here’s a snippet:

‘I think you’d do well to start apologising to your neighbours and show more consideration in the future…’

‘I’m telling you this in your own interests… Don’t get off on the wrong foot.’

It was a little heavy-handed perhaps but nothing too serious.

That’s not what the new neighbours thought.

At approximately 4pm on Monday, a police car pulled up outside the apartment block and two police officers got out, handcuffs jangling at their hips. Entering the premises, they headed straight for SuDick’s apartment, where they invited themselves in ‘for a chat’.

A complaint of harassment had been filed against poor Dick. The new tenants, it seemed, had decided to go nuclear on him, complaining that he was intimidating them.

Sparrow-hawk Susan sent out an email to us all, recounting Dick’s police encounter. ‘Dick wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she cried.

She added: ‘Dick’s note was not threatening; it was just convenient to construe it in that way. He simply pointed out that such behaviour had not set them off on the right foot here and suggested an apology to those kept awake might be appreciated. None has come, of course.’

Under no circumstances are we to contact the new tenants directly about noise again. I’ve got to hand it to them.

But I do feel a bit sorry for deflated Dick, now the long arm of the law has put a stop to his over-zealous neighbourhood watch.

Susan ended her email saying that the police seemed to know a lot of information about them.

‘Are our emails being hacked?’ she pondered.

Complaints, conspiracy theories and late-night confrontations… I fear it’s only a matter of time before Dick gets an ASBO – and Susan ends up in the slammer.

Barry Scott… and the Hate Mail

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I received my first-ever blog hate mail yesterday – from a man calling himself Barry Scott.

My first thought was, ‘Isn’t Barry Scott that silly man from the Cillit Bang commercials, with a really loud and annoying voice?’

My second thought – upon closer inspection of his message – was, ‘Uh-oh. Forget the bathroom spray, Barry Scott REALLY hates me.’

Here’s a snippet of what Barry Scott had to say:

I have to say I have never read a more, indulgent, vacuous, self-loving load of nonsense in my life. Boastful of your life, you are without a shadow of a doubt a horrible person. It is wonderful that your problems in life are small for you, but the way you write about them is quite frankly detestable. 

I know of some people who would love their problems to be turning up late to a wedding in London, or their cleaner buying them presents, but the world most people live in, they would never consider that a problem, never mind posting it onto the internet.

I think you seriously need to do some growing up, stop thinking that people are interested in your ‘perfect’ life, and then find some compassion, and learn how to treat people.

I sat in the bath running these words over and over in my mind. Horrible person… detestable… vacuous… Isn’t it funny how one nasty email can plummet you into the blackest of moods?

I didn’t even realise strangers were reading my blog. In fact, the only people I thought read my silly ramblings was my sister and a handful of friends – more out of loyalty than anything else.

I only wrote my blog for a bit of light-hearted fun; a little hobby because I missed writing. Yes, I could write about truly worthy causes such as poverty, war, cancer… but the whole premise of the blog was just daft, everyday trivia that stuck in my head and made me want to put pen to paper.

My blog is supposed to be self-deprecating and firmly tongue-in-cheek. Does Barry Scott genuinely think that my only worries in life revolve around arriving late to weddings, my big feet, puffed-up ankles, and whether a bearded hunk catches my eye at the gym?

And how does Barry Scott define my life as perfect? What is a ‘perfect’ life anyway?

As my thoughts spiralled, I then started thinking, ‘Oh no, if Barry Scott thinks this, what if EVERYONE thinks I am this vacuous beast of a person, who truly thinks that I’m worried that my cleaner keeps buying me presents (which is – obviously – THE most ludicrous first-world problem I could possibly imagine. That was the point!)

In fact, what if Barry Scott is actually someone I know, hiding behind a preposterous pseudonym and a veil of venom?

The husband, bless him, said that you can’t take anyone who calls themselves Barry Scott and peddles shower spray for a living seriously. He didn’t even leave a real email address.

Still, Barry Scott’s message stung. I decided to delete his comments, and cheered up slightly.

Bang… and the dirt was gone. But it did leave a mark behind.

Belligerent Bill… and his Crocodile Smile

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An encounter with Belligerent Bill this week – my first since the angry email I sent, lambasting his hypocritical, self-imposed parking rules.

He was polishing his car in the visitor space that I often use and – astonishingly – actually waved chummily to me as I drove past.

Avoiding eye contact, I parked up and scuttled sheepishly to the door.

‘Katy!’ he called cheerily, clutching his chamois leather. ‘You can park back here if you want. I’ll move my car for you.’

‘It’s okay…’ I said. ‘I’m going back out shortly…’

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Move his car for me? Really? This seemed extraordinary behaviour coming from the meanest, most selfish man on the planet to whom my last words were, ‘Please don’t bother me with any more of your silly messages and practice what you preach…‘

I smell a rat.

He probably wants to lure me back in with his crocodile smiles before smothering my front door in 100 ‘NEVER PARK HERE’ Post-It notes.

Well… Bill, my friend, two can play at that game.

My Coffee Shop Friend

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I’ve been in denial for a while but it’s time to come clean: I spend £2000 a year on coffee.

A crack cocaine habit would probably be cheaper.

I’m the person who enters Caffe Nero and before I can even say, ‘regular one shot, extra hot, skinny, wet latte – in a paper cup’, the barista is already cranking up the temperature gauge on the milk frother, with a knowing nod and an inward sigh.

But it’s not the coffee that I’m addicted to – it’s the coffee shop culture that I’m really hooked on. There’s something about sitting back, sipping on my latte and watching the world go by that keeps me coming back for more.

Who wouldn’t want to eavesdrop on these two woman (I call them ‘The Miserleys’) putting to world to rights each morning?

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These po-faced pensioners actually put their fingers in their ears when a crying baby is in earshot. I’ve started hoping that an unsuspecting new mum will pop a screaming newborn right next to them, just to see their horrified faces.

The Miserleys would have a field day if they ever got chatting to SuDick.

But my favourite coffee shop character is Peter – a kindly widow, who drives from his house near Harrogate every morning for his regular cappuccino and a seat in the window.

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The first time I met Peter was when he sat himself in the seat opposite me. I was about to get up and leave, and thought I’d throw a friendly, ‘What are you up to today?’ his way.

An hour later, he was still talking, dabbing his wet eyes with a handkerchief, as he described scattering his wife’s ashes under her favourite tree en Provence.

His beloved Brenda, it transpired, had passed away a year and four months ago. Life wasn’t the same anymore, he said, as I waded through the 140 pictures of Brenda, he was eager to show me.

In the space of an hour, I heard all about his love of Italy, his glory days as a body builder, running a car garage in North Leeds – and the fact that his son and his brother never come to visit him, and his daughter lives in Australia.

But his saddest statement was this: ‘It doesn’t matter how many days out you plan or how many friends you see, when you turn that key in the door at the end of the day, it’s just you in an empty house’.

I was almost in tears myself.

The next time I saw Peter, I told him I was off to do some decorating.

‘Brenda loved decorating…’ he said, wistfully. ‘It’s a year and four months since I lost Brenda now…’

And off he went again.

A week later, I told him I had him I was going to the gym.

‘Brenda loved the gym…’ he said. ‘She was such a beautiful woman…’

Last week, I did something bad. I saw Peter ambling across the car park towards Caffe Nero – and I’m afraid to say, I hid behind my car. I just hadn’t got 30 minutes to spare to chat about Brenda.

Still, I told the husband about my new friend Peter and one Saturday, as the barista was busy burning my milk, there he was.

‘Look, it’s my friend Peter!’ I said to the husband, pointing proudly.

Peter waved and began to head over… but then something extraordinary happened: he walked straight past me!

Instead, he shook hands with the lady next to me, and then ventured on to greet the person on the table after that.

At that moment, I realised Peter knew everyone in Caffe Nero – even the The Miserleys.

My coffee shop friend didn’t just want to cry on my shoulder; he wanted to cry about Brenda on everyone’s shoulders.

Peter might be special but I felt a little less so.

Big Grey Man’s Back

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At 7.45am on any weekday morning, Big Grey Man (see Gym Buddies) is usually queuing for a coffee at the gym – and attempting to make inane talk with me.

So imagine my shock when at 7.45am, I joined the queue at my local Caffe Nero (several miles from the gym) and who should be lurking ahead of me but… Big Grey Man, seemingly bigger and greyer than ever.

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He appeared completely unfazed by this random coincidence, simply beaming moronically at me and making small talk about the weather.

Same time, same coffee queue, completely different location.

I’m a little scared.

The Ex-Files

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Bumping into an ex-boyfriend you haven’t seen for 10 years is never fun. But when you leap out of bed, stumble to the gym with scarecrow hair, a sunburnt nose, completely sans make-up, and come face to face with them at 8am on a Saturday morning, it’s about as bad as it can get.

I always imagine the ideal ‘ex encounter’ might involve some sort of glamorous rooftop bar. Me – immaculately turned out, clinking glasses of Veuve and laughing animatedly with a hunky Gosling-alike (sorry husband). Him – Dejected and haggard, rueing the day he let his one chance of true love slip through his fingers…

My encounter yesterday couldn’t have been further from this. Bleary-eyed and channelling the just-dragged-through-a-hedgerow look, I was wearily waiting at the reception desk to resolve a problem with my faulty gym pass, when he came strolling through the door. It’s not that there’s any animosity there – it’s just, like with all exes, in my mind he had quietly disappeared and died some time ago.

Given that I was staring gormlessly at him for a good few seconds as he advanced towards me, I could have done the ‘mature’ thing: smiled in faux delight and indulged in some completely pointless pleasantries, trying furiously to ignore the fact that I looked like a porridge-faced bag lady, with a nose like Rudolph.

But that would have been far too sensible.

So instead, I hastily swivelled around and fixed my eyes somewhere on the wall behind the receptionist, as she finished her agonisingly-slow phone conversation. There we both were, the ex and I, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the wittering receptionist and studiously ignoring each other. His gym pass, it transpired, had stopped working too. What are the chances?

I spent the rest of the gym session skulking around, desperate not to bump into him, before scurrying back to my car and resolving never to go to the gym on a Saturday morning again.