At the end of last month, I had a good old fashioned whinge about our new, scummy next-door neighbours. Yes, I am sure that under the layers of dirt and grease that they are really nice blokes, but I predicted that it wouldn’t be long before there would be a car engine in the front garden. Well what do I see this lunchtime???
Is that an engine I see before me?
I’m sorry, but this is all getting so fucking boring now. Why does life have to be so blooming-well predictable? Thanks to the local council, our future will be a mixture of car parts and spilt oil and I thank them for it from the bottom of my heart. Why can’t these people make the effort and keep their council-given property in a decent condition?
I know that a lot of money has been spent on the house next door putting in new double glazing and a new roof, all this work subsidised by the council tax I pay, so why can’t these ingrates meet us halfway and keep their property in a decent condition? Why? Because they don’t care. Because to them, the car is king. To them it is more important to have an oily engine in their front garden than to bother to put their rubbish out or mow the lawn or have a wash.
Oh god, I feel about 75 years old now, waving my walking stick and shaking my fist at the world in impotent fury. Why did they have to move in next door and scum up the place so quickly? Why couldn’t we have had a nice family who actually deserved the property? Because nice families go out to work and break their balls trying to make ends meet instead of riding the gravy train.
I give up, I really do give up.