The homecoming welcome might have been warmer. Almost the first words my neighbour uttered were: "You aren't my favourite person."
Back in our west London home after three years away in France, our belief that the last of three sets of tenants had been models of good behaviour, as billed by the agents, was rudely shattered.
We'd known all about the first batch, the Ozzies. It began well, with the four signatories to the rental agreement offering to look after our cat and seeming a genuinely nice bunch.
The problem was that both the composition, and strength in numbers, of the bunch were liable to sharp fluctuation. Some of the bolt-ons and newcomers were distinctly less amiable.
Neighbours told of noisy late or all night parties, foul-mouthed abuse in response to requests for a bit of understanding and, finally, one couple having it off (making love would surely be an inappropriate phrase) in the street between two parked cars.
They were replaced by some twentysomething Chinese students who, by all accounts, were good as gold but eventually wanted to move elsewhere in London.
For the final year, we had two Polish couples. They came highly recommended by the agents and, until the moment that neighbour opened his mouth, we believed them to be quiet, hard-working and houseproud characters. They were even happy to do a spot of decorating provided we bought the materials.
But no. They, too, grew in numbers. Like Topsy. Towards the end, as many as 15 were allegedly in the house, which has three-and-a-half bedrooms. They, too, had their loud music, their parties into the small hours. Food was thrown around the garden during drunken barbecues, attracting foxes. Complaints about the thud-thud-thud of the bass from their "music" of choice drew such replies as: "But it's not loud."
Even one neighbour who had not even shared the generally dim view taken of the Australians was as cross as anyone, and he has a son whose own excruciatingly high-decibel music has long been part of the street's folklore. "The nuisance he caused was nothing by comparison," an elderly lady one more door away assured me.
Upshot? No more tenants. That's for sure. But at least relations with the unwelcoming neighbour seem to have been repaired.
"I seriously thought of moving," he said. "And of taking legal action against both the agents and you. Then I heard the Poles were leaving and you were coming back, so dropped it."
At that point, mindful that a big delivery truck was due any minute to offload furniture and contents from my last two homes, Paris and the south of France, I realised that I needed to get my car off the drive.
"This may not be a good time to ask, given my least favourite person status," I began, "but I suppose you can't spare one of those daily vouchers so I can park in the street? I haven't renewed my permit."
"Of course I can," he replied. All horrors of having tenant neighbours from hell forgotten? Perhaps not yet, but a pardon for the absentee landlord may be on its way.
* Readers of Salut! are asked to bear with me during the period of my moves, and to understand if emails go unanswered, postings unmade, comments unreplied to.
Recent Comments