A good neighbor would be a silent one who, when late at night, sees you digging a 6-foot-deep hole, silently joins you with a spade, and you dig together. That’s neighborly love. Maybe in my warped mind. A good neighbor knows when to come round, take a hint, defrost each other’s cars in the morning, taking turns. All that good stuff.
Unfortunately, you don’t get much of that here, well, here being in a city. Here you are just happy if your neighbor hasn’t keyed your car or put a knife through your wheels. Back in Wales. Now that’s a completely different story. In Wales, they come round and have dinner with you, look after the house while you’re away, you share your garden homegrown harvest with, and you are actually proud to have them as a friend.
An example, Martin, who has since departed, would come round all the time, or we would go to him and help him out with things. He was a nice neighbor to have. He would look after the house, feed the chickens when we were away, and we would cook him proper meals and have him sit with us in the dining room. Martin came to support my dad’s funeral although never meeting him. He was, for all purposes, a good man. A neighbor.
I would love to have a neighbor like that here. I really would. Maybe when I finally get into the flat, I’ll be pleasantly surprised, and my neighbors are nice. There is a Ukrainian social club on the same street, so wondering what that’ll be like living next to.
Bad neighbors. Good neighbors. Makes for an interesting life, but definitely prefer good neighbors. The line was crossed when the neighbors opened up our parcels, more than once, thinking it was theirs. Once maybe, two, three times? Nah. That’s just rude.
