It's Always Fair Weather

With the sun making its first appearance of 2014, the past week or so has been slightly calmer than usual up ma bit.  Since the curious incident of the dog in the close, the residents of number 23 have been more reluctant than ever to engage in the type of stairway banter which was once a common feature of the close, perhaps in their reluctance to have their “poaket” or worse, face, savaged by a devil dug.  Nonetheless there have been some minor updates, including a debate at the main door to rival a NATO convention.

“Fuckin’ pirates, that’ll be the next proablem!”  I heard somebody exclaim excitedly in front of the close door one evening.  Not that I’m a nosey neighbour or anything, but as usual my curiosity got the better of me and employing the tactics of interfering Elsie, I peered out from behind the curtains to check if as stated, the street was besieged by Pirate Ships.  Instead, I was amused to discover Johnny on his way out with his two dogs, engaged in a discussion with Old Mick, the street’s resident friendly tramp.

“I’m tellin’ ye, if Alec Salmon gets his way then we’ll be heavin’ wi’ fuckin’ Somali Pirates stealin’ oor oil”

“Well, I’m English but I’ve been here long enough to consider myself one of youse.  Yer right Mick, it’ll be a disaster – I dunno if there’ll be pirates though... There’s already no jobs, no money, we live in this shithole and Independence will make it all worse”

“aye, I know.  Av no had a joab fir about 20 year now, but that’s no the point. Did you see where I put ma Tennants? I’d offer ye a Superlager but I cannae mind where av put them….”

Overhearing Old Mick as he started searching the barren flowerpots for his Superlager, the thought did occur to me that his view of being unemployed for 20 years as “no the point”, might actually explain quite a lot.  Johnny once told me that Old Mick had been a composer, although at present the closest he came to working in the profession was singing in the street of an evening fuelled by alcohol and his performances peppered with profanity hurled at passers-by.  I heard Johnny decline a can and he headed out towards the park.  I have therefore been surprised to discover upon opening the curtains every morning since, so far there are no signs of the street resembling a newly submerged Atlantis, Pirate ships and all.

The only disturbance to report of late was last Wednesday night,  Gavin the South African/Australian (he has an accent that nobody has figured out) who lives downstairs took it upon himself to blast music at such a high volume, the results of which I can only compare to the post Armageddon anticipated dismay of Eschaton.  In the momentary pause between songs, I could be heard shouting “Thank God!” eventually descending into more frustrated “Thank Fuck”’s to indicate my dismay yet joy at a pause in the cacophony.  Eventually after a few hours I decided to knock on Alice’s door to see if she was also demented by the noise before I went downstairs to confront Gavin.  Bizarrely she hadn’t been able to hear it in her flat, but upon opening her door she could hear it in the close.  Whilst we stood chatting the music abruptly stopped, saving me the awkwardness of having to confront yet another neighbour for an atrocious disregard for the wellbeing of their fellow residents. 

“I don’t know about that music, but Jesus Christ – whitever he’s been cookin’ its fucking hoachin’!  Proabably fuckin’ Kangaroo wi’ that smell!”

Alice was her friendly self, yet somewhat more on the ball.  It transpired that, as she put it, she had “had tae fall oot wi’ Mr.Gin”.  Her drinking had been curbed by an incident earlier in the week.

“You ken whit like am ur.  I only go oot to see my maw in the home, go roon tae see oor Tommy (her brother) or tae get ma carry oot.  Will I went oot tae see Tommy cuz he’s got that prosticular cancer and he’s no git loang tae liv – and ah never leave that tumble dryer oan when am oot, but I wisnae oot fir loang.  Neways, I cum back, open ma door ‘n’ the whole fuckin’ joints ablaze! Fuckin’ fire ‘n’ smoke comin’ oot the cunt. Had tae unplug the bastard, I was takin’ ma fuckin’ life in ma hons!  If it wisnae fir Tommy ‘n’ his prostrate I never wooda goan oot”

I laughed nervously whilst imaging the possibility that I could have met my maker if the fire had ripped through the entire building.  I also found myself amused at this presumably new medical phenomenon of “prosticular/prostrate” illness, I’m yet to inform my University of this new anatomical discovery so they can conduct some research.  Long story short, her booze money will now be paid in monthly instalments to a catalogue company providing her with a new tumble dryer. 

“I’m oan they patches fir the smokin’” she added as she took a long draw of her liquorice paper roll up.  “Very fancy by the way” she said, nodding towards the updated décor.

I had decided to end the Phantom Pisser episode by removing the sign she had posted where accusations were still being made.  

Sometimes something as subtle a new door mat can be the symbolic closure needed and will bring about a swift end to confrontation; however I have a feeling that a "door mats' for Crimea" appeal might not be the new "Band Aid" (although Bob Geldof and Bono will jump on any bandwagon).

As quiet as it has been, and as amusing as these tales may seem, sometimes it’s hard not to find everything a little bit depressing.  Of late, regardless of whether the weather be bad or fine, I find that a little bit of escapism does no harm.  So amidst the aroma of Kangaroo, burning tumble dryers and Somali pirates, I invite you fine readers to indulge in a full 4 minutes and 20 seconds of pure bliss.

Imagining myself and the local alcoholic and junkie residents going about our business on roller-skates makes it easier to pretend – It’s always fair weather.

And that’s what has been happening up ma bit.