I quite like my next-door-neighbour. I’ve only recently moved into a new ground floor apartment on the strip and she’s pretty bloody cool. She’s called Deb and MAY be in her 50s or 60s although to be fair she looks like she’s had a hard life so it’s kinda hard to tell.
I like her for these reasons:
She told me about the tumble dryer in the complex and how you don’t actually have to put money in it because it’s broken and you just press start and can tumble dry your clothes even when it’s 38 degrees outside.
My landlord and dear friend told me in all seriousness you can hear Deb popping a champagne cork at about 3pm each day. I didn’t believe her, but it’s true. Awesome! Every. Single. Day.
Even after having people round a few times and probably playing music too loud and being drunk and a bit of a tool until god-knows-when in the morning, she has never, ever complained. Instead, she had a whinge about the guy who lives upstairs from her who got really drunk and was a LOT of a tool and had people over until god-knows-when and then dropped gross stuff in her garden. Win.
I’ve also met TJ the islander who is a hopsital orderly and plays guitar and lives upstairs and Singh the taxi driver who only works at night and the handiman chap who takes care of the bins and the plants and stuff. And the French guy who helped me climb my fence when I locked myself out and today, the quite nice looking chap doing his laundry whilst wearing sunglasses when it was raining. They are all Really Nice. I’m trying not to be suspicious.
This is life on the strip. Much better than when I lived in the ghetto and it was all drug dealers and police and insane people and more police (always half an hour late).
One of these days I’m a gonna get Debs round for some champers. True story.