I don’t like confrontation. But I can’t stand the situation any longer.
“Hello, I live at flat 46 just above.”
Suspicious look. Suspicious raise of eyebrows. Suspicious sort of grunt in return.
“Yes, well, I was just wondering...about your dog...”
Cold silence, but now the door opens fully.
“Yeah? What about my dog?”
I really, really don’t like confrontation.
“Well, well I was just wondering if...well, it barks quite a lot....”
Voice trails off.
“It’s a dog. What’s it going to do? Sing Lily bloody Allen?”
A hint of aggression, there. He knows what I mean. Why did I have to come down anyway? I always seem to provoke people, even if it’s by mistake.
“Yeah, but the thing is, it barks A LOT and I work at home during the day and...”
“So what? Get a f****** job.”
What? This bloke’s a moron, as well as big. A big moron.
“No, I’ve got a job. I just said I work from home, except I can’t work that well because your dog is barking all day.”
“And? Do you want me to gag it? We’re not even here during the day. We go to work.”
That’s it. I’ve snapped. Goodbye, Mr. Nice Guy. Hello Mr. Nice Guy - But Don't Push Me. What is it with people these days? The more wrong they are, the more aggressively stupid they are. Oh well, may as well be beaten senseless for a sheep as a lamb.
“To be honest, your dog barks most of the night as well and it’s disturbing us. So yeah, gag it or even better, get rid of it.”
“F*** off you prat.”
Like that, is it? Well, you’ve asked for it. Off come the metaphorical gloves. I prepare to step into the metaphorical gutter. Out comes the metaphorical Stanley knife.
“I think the lease specifically states that pets aren’t allowed in the flats.”
Gotcha! Oh dear. The door opens wide again and he takes a step forward.
“Yeah? Well what about you and your f****** wooden floors? I know you have - I saw them go in when the last people were there. Does the lease say you can have wooden floors in a flat? Don’t think so. So go on – jog on."
I can’t believe this. He just told me to jog on. He’s wearing a track suit and he’s over 50. He probably models himself on Tony Soprano. An Essex Tony Soprano. Well, he’s just a big bully and the only way to deal with big bullies is to speak to the Chairman of the management committee.
“I’m not sure if they’re allowed or not but I’ll tell you what. Wooden floors don’t bark their bloody heads off at midnight every night of the week, do they? They might squeak once in a while, but so does a gerbil and that’s hardly comparable to a dog is it?”
“Who is it, Tony?”
He’s actually called Tony.
“Some busybody from upstairs. He’s complaining about the dog.”
Me a busybody? I’m only 37. I’m not a busybody, making a note of tenants who throw cardboard in the recycling bins or complaining about poor quality daffodils in the communal garden. I’m just a normal person politely asking a neighbour to try and keep his dog from barking ALL THE BLOODY TIME. I hate this. My anger has subsided and my courage has deserted me. I’ve started trembling and people like this can smell weakness. She stalks up from behind Tony and launches her index finger in the direction of my left eye.
“You what? Have you got naffing bladdy better to do than stick your bladdy nose into avver peepul’s business? Nobody else has complained have they? What’s your problem, eh? Got naffing be’er to do you little sh**?Mind your own bladdy business or you’ll get a slairp.”
She’s like a sour old barmaid with her died dirty straw coloured hair and cheap gold. Have you been auditioning for a role in Eastenders? I nearly ask her, I really do. Well, no Christmas card for you this year sweetheart. You didn’t even send us one back last year anyway. Time for diplomacy.
“Look, I don’t want to fall out with you. I just wanted to ask if you can keep your dog’s barking down somehow, that’s all.”
Hey – we’re neighbours. The least we can do is get...
“Piss off.”
The door slams. I stare at it in disbelief. This went just the way I feared, yet somehow knew was inevitable. Right then. I go back up to my flat and go inside - without taking my shoes off. I hear that damn dog barking, barking, barking, but you know what? I’ve got a pair of Sony DJ headphones with extra long cord. I plug them in to the TV, settle back and hey presto. I can hardly hear it. Round one to flat 46, I think.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
It's all gone quiet at the back
I go to the cinema on my own, during the day, when a film has been showing for a long time. I sit at the back. That way I minimise the risk of encountering rustling, slurping, and theatrical whisperings that generally include “Who’s that, again?” when it isn’t George Clooney; “What’s happened?” from the hefty woman just back with yet more popcorn; and “This is crap” when there hasn’t been an explosion for a while or subtitles appear.
Why come to the cinema if you can’t concentrate for longer than an episode of Big Brother? And since a lot of people can’t, why not have bouncers to throw them out? You go to the pub, you’re supposed to behave yourself. If you don’t, you’re out. Why not in a cinema? You could hire big librarians to do the job.
But I made a bit of a mistake the other day and went to see Avatar when it first came out. Sure enough, a group of kids armed to the teeth with large bags of popcorn (not buckets, but bags. They buy from Sainsbury's because it's cheaper, I suppose) plonked themselves down in the aisle in front of me talking loudly. Steady on, I told myself. They’re just excited and it’s only the adverts.
Steady on, I told myself a few minutes later. They’re really excited and hey - it’s only the trailers.
This is ridiculous, I told myself a few minutes after that. They might be excited, but the bloody film has started now. How can a bag of popcorn make so much noise? I though popcorn came in rustle-free buckets, anyway. I start tensing up. I look around, but nobody else seems to even notice. I’m sweating a little bit. I reach into my pocket and furiously pull out the last of my jellybeans – which have been emptied from their packet to avoid crinkling. I munch away trying to concentrate on the film but it’s no good, even if I have developed a strange attraction to Neytiri.
What am I going to do? Let’s face it, nobody else is going to say anything. Loud people have no shame. You ask them to keep it down, they’ll have a go at you and everyone will turn and look and you’ll be embarrassed.
Worse, they might call their psycho elder brothers who’ll then be waiting to shut you up after the show. And the real cheek of it is they won’t leave to make the call, even though you’re supposed to switch your mobile phone off before the show.
Perhaps I’ll outshame them. They won’t expect that. They can have a go at decent people, but what if I pretend I’m a complete nutcase? I could launch a volley of abuse that shows I just don’t care, maaaan, and shock them out of their greasy spotty skins. I could even pour water over them from the bottle I bought from the shop next door for one third of the price the cinema sells it for.
These 3D glasses make me feel a bit of a plonker though, especially since they are balance on the end of my nose on top of my normal glasses.
(By the way, you can’t use the glasses they give you for 3D films as sunglasses. I wonder how many people have felt disappointed by that.)
OK, I can go out and ask one of the staff to do the job for me. But they’ll know it was me and it would make me look like a snitch. As soon as the member of staff leaves, they’ll turn around and tease me. But that’s all. Does snitching deserve a good beating from the insane older brother? Nope.
But deep down, despite my fury, I know I’m not going to say anything though. If I do, they’ll just giggle and carry on and that would make me look pathetic.
So I don’t say anything and just mutter. And the person behind tells ME to keep quiet. And do you know what? I do.
Why come to the cinema if you can’t concentrate for longer than an episode of Big Brother? And since a lot of people can’t, why not have bouncers to throw them out? You go to the pub, you’re supposed to behave yourself. If you don’t, you’re out. Why not in a cinema? You could hire big librarians to do the job.
But I made a bit of a mistake the other day and went to see Avatar when it first came out. Sure enough, a group of kids armed to the teeth with large bags of popcorn (not buckets, but bags. They buy from Sainsbury's because it's cheaper, I suppose) plonked themselves down in the aisle in front of me talking loudly. Steady on, I told myself. They’re just excited and it’s only the adverts.
Steady on, I told myself a few minutes later. They’re really excited and hey - it’s only the trailers.
This is ridiculous, I told myself a few minutes after that. They might be excited, but the bloody film has started now. How can a bag of popcorn make so much noise? I though popcorn came in rustle-free buckets, anyway. I start tensing up. I look around, but nobody else seems to even notice. I’m sweating a little bit. I reach into my pocket and furiously pull out the last of my jellybeans – which have been emptied from their packet to avoid crinkling. I munch away trying to concentrate on the film but it’s no good, even if I have developed a strange attraction to Neytiri.
What am I going to do? Let’s face it, nobody else is going to say anything. Loud people have no shame. You ask them to keep it down, they’ll have a go at you and everyone will turn and look and you’ll be embarrassed.
Worse, they might call their psycho elder brothers who’ll then be waiting to shut you up after the show. And the real cheek of it is they won’t leave to make the call, even though you’re supposed to switch your mobile phone off before the show.
Perhaps I’ll outshame them. They won’t expect that. They can have a go at decent people, but what if I pretend I’m a complete nutcase? I could launch a volley of abuse that shows I just don’t care, maaaan, and shock them out of their greasy spotty skins. I could even pour water over them from the bottle I bought from the shop next door for one third of the price the cinema sells it for.
These 3D glasses make me feel a bit of a plonker though, especially since they are balance on the end of my nose on top of my normal glasses.
(By the way, you can’t use the glasses they give you for 3D films as sunglasses. I wonder how many people have felt disappointed by that.)
OK, I can go out and ask one of the staff to do the job for me. But they’ll know it was me and it would make me look like a snitch. As soon as the member of staff leaves, they’ll turn around and tease me. But that’s all. Does snitching deserve a good beating from the insane older brother? Nope.
But deep down, despite my fury, I know I’m not going to say anything though. If I do, they’ll just giggle and carry on and that would make me look pathetic.
So I don’t say anything and just mutter. And the person behind tells ME to keep quiet. And do you know what? I do.
Water for the table
I was feeling in a good mood today. I was out and about, it had started snowing and Christmas is on the way, so I thought I’d treat myself to lunch somewhere, you know. Nice.
Unfortunately, I made a bad entrance: it took me four goes to actually get inside. Pull...no. Push...no. Other door. Pull....no. Blush. Curse. Push...try and believe that nobody saw. Then I had to repeat myself when I asked for a table for one. Confidence started to drain from my unworthy body, replaced by mild paranoia.
Were they actually trying to be fully booked once I confessed that I hadn’t reserved? Do I really look a mess? I can afford to be here, I can. Now I felt awkward, like I was on a blind date with an intelligent lingerie model who’d been hoping to meet her Bruce Wayne but ended up with Bruce Forsyth.
Eventually a waitress reluctantly looked up from the book and, with a curt nod, took me to a table in a corner at the back and out of the way - although I do quite like to be near the toilet.
If I know where the toilet is I know I won’t have to ask, or make a fool out of myself by nonchalantly trying to open the fire escape, or wander into the kitchen, or fall down some stairs.
And then, as I sat down, the waitress asked me if I wanted some water for the table. Water for the table? Had I misunderstood her? She spoke with quite a pronounced French accsont. I pretended I hadn’t heard and asked her to repeat. But I was right (I studied French at Aston University). Would I like some water for the table?
I blinked to buy some precious time while my brain whirred away in the background. Did the table need a wash? Surely that was her job. Surely she should have given it a wipe down before I arrived. I pretended to ponder the question and scanned the surface for the remnants of the lunch special, but it gleamed spotlessly.
Water for the table? I discreetly lowered my gaze, half-expecting to see the four legs stood in little plant pots.
Water for the table? I’ve heard of feeding the pigeons. A penny for the guy. But what was this? How much water did the table need? How expensive was the water? The menu said £15.95 for two courses, I hadn’t factored in water for the table. The waitress was getting fidgety by now, you know, in a French sort of way. A light, cold sweat broke over me like condensation. Or condescension.
She sensed I didn’t belong there, it must have been her body language that told me. As the pressure mounted I felt the other diners stop talking, turn around and stare. A sudden hush fell over the restaurant. A palpable moment of tension. Forks froze in mid-air. My heart...so loud. Help.
Water for the table? Oh, why did I come here in the first place? I’m the only one in here below 60 anyway, the only one wearing trainers, the only one who doesn’t know what a Pithivier is. I always prefer fish and chips anyway (haddock – and skinned). I know where I am in a chippy. I’m confident, streetwise, able to deal with whatever life throws at me, although I’m not a fan of tartar sauce.
But here, here they can smell my weakness even when there’s a prix-fixe menu involved. I’m Burnley away from home. I’m Joe Calzaghe on Strictly Come Dancing. I’m William Hague wearing a baseball cap.
In the end, it was the bread that saved me. The nice smiling waiter who came along with a basket full of bread and silver tongues to take them out with. His friendly demeanour set me free from the panic. I was OK. If I was allowed bread, it couldn’t all be bad. As he carefully positioned a walnut and raisin roll at the centre of my plate, I asked the waitress if I could see the wine list. And as she turned to leave, I also asked for a glass of tap water. For me, I added. She looked slightly puzzled, but hey. That’s the French for you.
Unfortunately, I made a bad entrance: it took me four goes to actually get inside. Pull...no. Push...no. Other door. Pull....no. Blush. Curse. Push...try and believe that nobody saw. Then I had to repeat myself when I asked for a table for one. Confidence started to drain from my unworthy body, replaced by mild paranoia.
Were they actually trying to be fully booked once I confessed that I hadn’t reserved? Do I really look a mess? I can afford to be here, I can. Now I felt awkward, like I was on a blind date with an intelligent lingerie model who’d been hoping to meet her Bruce Wayne but ended up with Bruce Forsyth.
Eventually a waitress reluctantly looked up from the book and, with a curt nod, took me to a table in a corner at the back and out of the way - although I do quite like to be near the toilet.
If I know where the toilet is I know I won’t have to ask, or make a fool out of myself by nonchalantly trying to open the fire escape, or wander into the kitchen, or fall down some stairs.
And then, as I sat down, the waitress asked me if I wanted some water for the table. Water for the table? Had I misunderstood her? She spoke with quite a pronounced French accsont. I pretended I hadn’t heard and asked her to repeat. But I was right (I studied French at Aston University). Would I like some water for the table?
I blinked to buy some precious time while my brain whirred away in the background. Did the table need a wash? Surely that was her job. Surely she should have given it a wipe down before I arrived. I pretended to ponder the question and scanned the surface for the remnants of the lunch special, but it gleamed spotlessly.
Water for the table? I discreetly lowered my gaze, half-expecting to see the four legs stood in little plant pots.
Water for the table? I’ve heard of feeding the pigeons. A penny for the guy. But what was this? How much water did the table need? How expensive was the water? The menu said £15.95 for two courses, I hadn’t factored in water for the table. The waitress was getting fidgety by now, you know, in a French sort of way. A light, cold sweat broke over me like condensation. Or condescension.
She sensed I didn’t belong there, it must have been her body language that told me. As the pressure mounted I felt the other diners stop talking, turn around and stare. A sudden hush fell over the restaurant. A palpable moment of tension. Forks froze in mid-air. My heart...so loud. Help.
Water for the table? Oh, why did I come here in the first place? I’m the only one in here below 60 anyway, the only one wearing trainers, the only one who doesn’t know what a Pithivier is. I always prefer fish and chips anyway (haddock – and skinned). I know where I am in a chippy. I’m confident, streetwise, able to deal with whatever life throws at me, although I’m not a fan of tartar sauce.
But here, here they can smell my weakness even when there’s a prix-fixe menu involved. I’m Burnley away from home. I’m Joe Calzaghe on Strictly Come Dancing. I’m William Hague wearing a baseball cap.
In the end, it was the bread that saved me. The nice smiling waiter who came along with a basket full of bread and silver tongues to take them out with. His friendly demeanour set me free from the panic. I was OK. If I was allowed bread, it couldn’t all be bad. As he carefully positioned a walnut and raisin roll at the centre of my plate, I asked the waitress if I could see the wine list. And as she turned to leave, I also asked for a glass of tap water. For me, I added. She looked slightly puzzled, but hey. That’s the French for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)