Bruce
Yes Dear
- Messages
- 157
Ever since cutting up some steel plate and ruining the Boss's grandma's antique china tea set with the grinding fall out, What the Manual Doesn't Say, Lesson 6, the Boss has forbidden me to do any cutting work inside the garage. Normally this wouldn't bother me, except for the Flanders next door.
I mean one shouldn't have anything bad to say about your neighbours, and especially mine. They are very polite, and behind the super thin walls of the modern British semi-detached one can only applaud their tolerance of my beligerant brood of brats. Now I know they can hear everything we do. I swear they bless me every morning when I get kicked out of bed by the Boss for farting under the duvet and I know for sure that I dont get a leg over anymore on a Sunday morning because they play their church music just loud enough to let us know they are there and give the Boss a conscience. But by and large, day or night, the Boss and I never hear a peep out of them, no radio, no TV, no screaming brats (I'm sure he's a jaffa). Their garden is immaculate and they never hang their underware on the washing line.
They are near perfect, except for one thing. I am convinced Mr Flanders is a frustrated Fred. I mean, I dont see myself as walking on the wild side, but everytime he sees me outside with the angle grinder he just ogles me and turns a delicate shade of puce. I've offered to lend him my ear muffs, even wiped off the sweat and earwax, but he was having none of it. Just stood there and ogled me. Now this is very disconcerting and puts me off my task reminding me of that lurker who always tries to read my copy of The Guardian over my shoulder on the 625 bus into work. How rude I find his clucking and fidgeting should I turn over a page he still happens to be reading.
Now I can understand, he may not think I am a perfect neighbour. Our first introduction was when he came over one Sunday to complain about the cigarette burns and butts that were landing on his plastic patio breakfast table. But it wasn't me. I always put mine out in the Boss's potted Fushia bush. The collection of butts there stops the advance of the garden slugs. Turns out it was my eldest kid who had taken to stealing a fag or two off me when I wasn't looking and flipping them over the fence when she saw me coming to potter about in the shed.
And really, the fact that his work shirts got speckled with Jaguar Racing Green cellulose paint while they were hanging out to dry is hardly my fault. Who can predict the wiles of British weather and the sudden wind direction changes while respraying that old classic motorcycle that's been buried at the back of the garage and was only rediscovered while hunting for the missing cat.
So anyway, I do everything I can to ensure good neighbourliness and of late I am beginning to regret this. He's treating me now like I am a long lost mate and now wants to borrow some of my tools so he can have a bash at his own DIY tasks. I find it very hard to say feck off, and he hasn't returned my angle grinder yet. Would it be rude to ask for it back seeing as I haven't seen him use it yet?
Anyway, just for the curious, got the bike done and am now teaching the youngest the pleasures of motorcycling. He's a chip off the old block
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I mean one shouldn't have anything bad to say about your neighbours, and especially mine. They are very polite, and behind the super thin walls of the modern British semi-detached one can only applaud their tolerance of my beligerant brood of brats. Now I know they can hear everything we do. I swear they bless me every morning when I get kicked out of bed by the Boss for farting under the duvet and I know for sure that I dont get a leg over anymore on a Sunday morning because they play their church music just loud enough to let us know they are there and give the Boss a conscience. But by and large, day or night, the Boss and I never hear a peep out of them, no radio, no TV, no screaming brats (I'm sure he's a jaffa). Their garden is immaculate and they never hang their underware on the washing line.
They are near perfect, except for one thing. I am convinced Mr Flanders is a frustrated Fred. I mean, I dont see myself as walking on the wild side, but everytime he sees me outside with the angle grinder he just ogles me and turns a delicate shade of puce. I've offered to lend him my ear muffs, even wiped off the sweat and earwax, but he was having none of it. Just stood there and ogled me. Now this is very disconcerting and puts me off my task reminding me of that lurker who always tries to read my copy of The Guardian over my shoulder on the 625 bus into work. How rude I find his clucking and fidgeting should I turn over a page he still happens to be reading.
Now I can understand, he may not think I am a perfect neighbour. Our first introduction was when he came over one Sunday to complain about the cigarette burns and butts that were landing on his plastic patio breakfast table. But it wasn't me. I always put mine out in the Boss's potted Fushia bush. The collection of butts there stops the advance of the garden slugs. Turns out it was my eldest kid who had taken to stealing a fag or two off me when I wasn't looking and flipping them over the fence when she saw me coming to potter about in the shed.
And really, the fact that his work shirts got speckled with Jaguar Racing Green cellulose paint while they were hanging out to dry is hardly my fault. Who can predict the wiles of British weather and the sudden wind direction changes while respraying that old classic motorcycle that's been buried at the back of the garage and was only rediscovered while hunting for the missing cat.
So anyway, I do everything I can to ensure good neighbourliness and of late I am beginning to regret this. He's treating me now like I am a long lost mate and now wants to borrow some of my tools so he can have a bash at his own DIY tasks. I find it very hard to say feck off, and he hasn't returned my angle grinder yet. Would it be rude to ask for it back seeing as I haven't seen him use it yet?
Anyway, just for the curious, got the bike done and am now teaching the youngest the pleasures of motorcycling. He's a chip off the old block
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