'Oh give me a home, where the odd folks don't roam ...'

One thing that letting agents fail to mention in their listings is the matter of neighbours. It is well known that agents tend to gloss over the less salubrious characteristics of their properties, and it would seem that neighbours feature highly in this category. Amongst the eloquently worded paragraphs extolling the virtues of central heating, laminate flooring, double glazing and all mod cons, you’d be hard pushed to find a mention of the dubious characters that will be gently abutting your boundaries .. .. in all senses.

I recently moved into my first sole occupancy property, an event which filled me equally with thrill and dread. Finally I would be able to live the carefree lifestyle I hankered after - leaving the loo seat up (yes, women do that too!), washing up when I wanted to and not when my housemates issued me with death threats, filling the fridge with chocolate and not vegetables. Yet at the same time the prospect of living alone caused no end of apprehension. Who would remove the spiders from the bath? Who’d remember to pay the bills before the red letters arrived? Who’d supervise me with the hot and sharp things that litter an adults’ home? This problem was solved in the most part when I moved into a flat adjoining that of my best friend. In this case I didn’t need to ask the letting agent about the neighbours - I already knew her. I knew that she could be relied upon to still be awake at midnight when I couldn’t get the lid off the Nutella. I knew that she always had milk in the fridge, even if I didn’t. I knew that at 5’10” she’d solve the problem of my inability to change lightbulbs. It was going to be perfect. And in my haste to move into this Stepford-esque world of friendship, cookies and smiles, I made a fatal mistake. So convinced was I that life next to my best friend would be nothing short of perfect, I didn’t bother to ask about the other neighbours.

I should probably point out now that this isn’t going to be a ‘neighbours from hell’ horror story, where I reveal to the world the never-ending cycle of abuse and vandalism I suffered at the hands of those next door. Nor is this a story like Mr and Mrs Smith of 9 Rillington Place would tell -“And that Mr Christie seemed like such a nice man”. In a sense I have been very fortunate. My neighbours don’t chop up people and bury them in the cellar. At least not that I’m aware of. Nor do they stand idly by while their tribe of 14 children wreak havoc on the local amenities. No, in a sense this story is about something much more trivial. But it vexes me nonetheless!
You see, as well as asking about the neighbours, I’ve realised that you should ALWAYS measure the thickness of the walls that divide your small incubated world from that of those next door. I realised this at midnight one balmy Wednesday night, four nights after I moved in. And I realised it at 3 o’clock the next morning. I had another epiphany at midnight the following night. And the night after that. And the night after that. In fact, I’ve been having these semi-religious epiphanies every night since I made the flat my home. The reason being, my neighbour has been having semi-religious epiphanies of a different kind.

In this world of Big Brother and I’m a Celebrity, we are encouraged to give in to our voyeuristic tendencies. The sight of a naked body wouldn’t cause most of us to turn a hair. So used are we to seeing sex on TV that it just isn’t shocking anymore, at least, not when people on telly are doing it anyway. However, when it comes to the nocturnal activities of those you know, the less involved you are the better. I just wish someone would explain this to my neighbour.

Unsurprisingly, the advert for my flat didn’t read ‘bijou one-bed, central heating, newly refurbished, directly adjacent to a sex-crazed Meg Ryan wannabee’. And in some ways I’m glad it didn’t. If I’d chosen not to take the flat, I’d never have discovered the fuzzy and slightly dangerously close-to-the-edge joy of sleep deprivation - who knew how dangerous a tin opener can be in the hands of a woman who had 2 hours sleep?! However, the ‘When Harry met Sally’ pantings of them next door has left me feeling like a protagonist in their sexual relations. I find myself willing her to fake it quickly, just so I can get some sleep. I share in her deep post-coital relief, though for obviously different reasons. I’m genuinely relieved when she’s not in the mood (oh, the elusive joy of sleep!). It’s like having a sexual soap opera enacted through my bedroom wall. The ‘will they, won’t they’ storyline is a veritable rollercoaster of emotion, my insomnia dependent on the outcome of the episode. I just wish someone would sack the writer. And the lead actress. The scripts are repetitive (how many ways is it possible to say ‘Oh my god yes’? Not that many it would seem) and the acting is not so much wooden as just thoroughly unconvincing. I find myself like an Olympic judge, fighting hard the urge to knock on their window holding a card bearing the message ‘7.5 - she demonstrated good showmanship, but it’s clear he needs to work on his technique’.

The fact that irks me the most is that my neighbours upstairs are convinced that I am the source of the ‘Harry Does Herne Hill’ soundtrack. Many’s the night that my neighbour has panted and squealed her way through the early hours, while the woman upstairs bangs loudly on my ceiling with a broom. I find myself assaulted with noise from all sides. ‘It’s not me’ I wail plaintively at the ceiling, but to no avail. Most mornings I am met a with look of disgust from the upstairs window as I flee my flat, suffering pangs of reflective guilt. I wouldn’t mind so much if I was the perpetrator of the midnight Hallelujah Chorus - at least I could wallow in smugness. But instead I spend most nights nursing a tub of Ben and Jerry’s whilst deeply involved with the goings on in the Big Brother house. All I need is a cat, and my transformation into Miss Haversham is complete.