My Fat Neighbour

As the weather becomes more clement and the bees buzz busily around the flowers in  my garden, my fat neighbour and her alcoholic husband take to the garden nightly and allow their children to stay up far too late so they can shout obscenities at them.

As you can imagine, this means if I want to enjoy a balmy evening sipping special brew and contemplating the formation of attachment patterns between parent and infant, I have to be subjected to her sloppy voice, her obtrusive presence through my fence (which I had built higher so I couldn’t see the top of her useless fat head) and her disregard of politeness and modern decency. I can’t help but tune in to her abrasive voice which shunts me out of self reflection and idle day dreaming. So I stay in and turn the TV up.

If I want to sit in my front room, I am subjected to her banging on her window at her children and shouting “fucking shut up I can’t hear the TV”. I also have to be subjected to her fucking fat arse glowering at me through my window as she walks her cat on a lead (yes, on a fucking lead!) and lets it shit in my garden even though she knows I am watching.

She calls her cat “pussy cat”. Pussy cat is her prisoner. Much like Jabba the Hutt in The Empire Strikes back has Princess Lea as his pet. When I leave for work, pussy cat looks mournfully on as I pull out from the crescent. His eyes plead with me for sweet release, whether that be through escape or death. I scowl back my reply “no, because you shit in my garden and I have to watch”. Pussy cat feels emasculated being on a lead. Pussy cat has made several bids for freedom and I hear Jabba screech at her children for allowing it to get out. I root for Pussy cat and hope this time he has made it. Maybe he is enjoying prowling around the neighbourhood feeling fresh air on his whiskers and socialising  and frolicking with other cats.

The next day, pussy cat mournfully greets me through the window. He has been extradited back to his fat prison and is Jabba’s pet once more. He sits, stock still, like an ornament and regards me. Maybe he feels that I’m his Han Solo. Stop shitting in my garden, I say to him.