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.

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6 thoughts on “My Fat Neighbour

  1. I left a comment here last week. I think the internet stole it.
    It’s horrible having neighbours who impinge upon your right to have a sleaze free life, isn’t it? I spent the first thirty-odd years of my life on housing estates surrounded by Jabbas. Hateful people. Apart from its obvious misery at being held captive by an alien gangsterite who presumably generates her own gravity, does the poor cat have any redeeming features?
    Although they are commonly assumed to be innocent bystanders when it comes to all things human, some pets do tend to absorb and then display their owners’ least attractive foibles and habits. Has your neighbour ever secretly shitted in your flower borders for example? It’s a question which demands consideration, you know. One of my neighbours feeds and then verbally abuses the local herring gulls, many of whom have recently begun displaying unmistakable evidence of Stockholm syndrome combined with early onset narrow spectrum social dysmorphia displacement disorder, as well as leaving phenomenal shit stains all down the side of my house.
    Is life treating you well otherwise, Sheds?
    xG

  2. The word pussy can also be used in a derogatory sense to refer to a male who is not considered sufficiently masculine (see Gender role ). When used in this sense, it carries the implication of being easily fatigued, weak or cowardly.

  3. Hiya G. Good to have a fully formed comment in all it’s exquisite roundness. Poor pussycat eh? I do feel sorry for that poor cat. If it talked, it would speak like Louis Spence. If it smelt, it would probably smell of the wood shavings of despair. But as we both know G, all too tragically, nothing really smells of anything. Oh, how we would long for the sweet yet acrid tendrils of ammonia, but No! We are all forced to suffer the bland, every day life smell of beef and tomato ‘The Nation’s Noodle’. I am sure you stock it G. It’s quite the delicacy.

    Any other business: Yea, I am fine. I crawl around industrial estates with a wire brush, hoping to loosen some gloss paint from oncoming furniture. And you?

    • Oh Sheds.
      As the late August von Schellenberg would have said, it’s all quite shitty. My youngest daughter, Rach.A.El, was diagnosed with Crohn’s back in June, having been in and out of hospital since February. Lots of pain, lots of cramps etc.
      So I had to call an ambulance for her a couple of weeks ago when she woke up screaming in pain, and to cut a very long story quite short, she nearly died with a perforated bowel and a huge abscess in her ileum. She’s had surgery, we’ve just got her back home and things are slowly getting back to something like normal.
      So that’s me. Glad you’re hunting down gloss paint, it’s a tricky bugger, n’est pas?
      G x

      • Oh, dear G, what a horrible time that you and your family have been going through. I’m glad Rach.A.El is safely at home in the clammy bosom of her family, and I’m sure it must be most comforting for her to be there and be looked after. Even as a fully (albeit, tiny) grown woman, there’s one thing that illness has you wanting, and that’s your mum and dad and the safety that brings with it. I hope you were treated well by my fellow NHS colleagues in these austere times. I will be shackling my innards and concentrating firmly on a point in the distance in the hope it will bring relief and comfort to your family. x

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