From: Mike Crotch
To: Peter Loftus
Subject: Neighbours from Hell
Peter, I’m really struggling with this “love your neighbour” lark. Let’s face it, if your neighbour’s kids went batcrap crazy and bounced off the walls at 2am EVERY night you’d struggle too.
I appreciate it’s a pretty easy commandment… if you live in a detached house or some remote cottage out in the sticks – but for those of us who have to live in a terraced house on a grotty council estate teeming with working class louts it also makes us struggle with not murdering people.
You and your wife are easy to love because you live three miles away and I don’t see you often. In an ideal world every house would be three miles apart, but I guess we live in a fallen world.
I’ve no idea what goes on next door, Peter, but it’s like they play “Let’s see who can make the most noise while doing ten laps of the house” every five minutes. There’s screaming, yelling, door slamming, dogs barking… and constant stomping. It’s like they’ve stripped the carpets and run around on the floorboards all day wearing hiking boots.
If the man of the house raised his voice just a little they’d be able to hear him in Outer Mongolia – while his wife… wow, her voice can cut through granite.
Finally, there’s the parties, Peter. The police are actually considering relocating their station to our estate to cut down on fuel expenses.
Meanwhile… the guy on the other side is nice enough, but when he invites me round I forget I’m a visitor after a couple of hours and start feeling more like a hostage.
Also, what’s the deal with asking people to remove their shoes before entering your home? How much muck does he think my shoes have accumilated in that five second walk?
In fact next time he asks me to remove my shoes I’m going to deliver a stinging riposte. “What is this, a mosque?”