Chess's Charming Neighbours

CHESS TAYLOR

I’ve got some really rather charming neighbours. They throw things like dirty nappies and KFC boxes into our garden. But only when we’re not watching.

It all started when we moved in; first the occasional Fruit Corner pot, graduating to beer bottles then full on bin bag missiles. Bin bags tend to create a lot of mess, particularly on a windy day when they’ve been speared by a tree. And, judging by the contents of said bags, I am frankly concerned for the health of the perpetrators whilst simultaneously pissed off by the risk they pose to my own. But it gets better.

I was woken one morning last week by scrabbling, screeching, something smacking against the window pane. Tired and a little hungover, I did my best to ignore it and go back to sleep but with only partial success. Once I had dragged my bones out of bed, showered and dressed, I opened the curtains to reveal a dead pigeon swinging by one foot from the wire surrounding the guttering. I screamed. I cried. I felt utterly disturbed and quite sick. My boyfriend rushed to shut the curtains and hide the dangling corpse from view while its pigeon friends congregated around it, for what reason we could not imagine. Some undiscovered form of avian grief? Cannibalism? No: the people in the flat above were feeding the dirty little specimens. Not only were they depositing human waste in our garden but they were beckoning filthy, disease-ridden creatures to our bedroom window.

I called the council as soon as I arrived at work that morning and they pledged to ‘address the situation as appropriate’, promising to call me when they’d cleaned the gutters out and presumably given someone a bollocking. For the next five days I was awoken by the same noise (thankfully minus the cadavers) and decided to call back and find out exactly what was going on:

‘Sorry, there’s no record of your call. And anyway, we don’t deal with pest control. You’ll have to phone this number instead.’

So I called the number the lady gave me, then they made me call someone else and then I was put on hold four 15 minutes then finally, finally I was granted the privilege of a conversation with a council worker. I explained the situation, my shock, my utter disgust; she was making the right noises and I really felt like I was getting somewhere.

‘So what are the options?’

‘Well, I’ll issue a letter saying we’ve had a complaint from your address and hopefully it will encourage them to stop.’

A letter? With my address on it? To compel the skanks upstairs to dream up something even more revolting to subject us to? Weeing over the side of the balcony, perhaps? I conveyed this to her in the politest possible terms and subsequently demanded that she dispatch somebody to clean the rice out of the gutters and pay them a visit and, after much umming and ahhing she eventually agreed.

The council are popping into our neighbours’ flat at the weekend and I am feeling a strange mixture of excitement and dread, anticipating either the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had in a while or a deluge of chicken bones and Pampers. But if all else fails we have a back-up plan: an arsenal of that 90s favourite, the SuperSoaker. Suggestions for what they should contain are most welcome. Read more by Chess.

Hell is a supermarket full of other people.

CHESS TAYLOR

Ah, the weekly trip to the supermarket. How I relish it. Off I scamper, head filled with thoughts of all the lovely things I’m going to buy, the delicious dinner I have planned for that evening.

In I go, grab my basket and make my way to the veg aisle. And I am stopped dead in my tracks by a mothers’ meeting. They’re not deliberating between the iceberg or the little gem or even exchanging recommendations; they’re just blathering away to one another about well ... nothing in particular: last night’s Coronation Street and that Brenda from down the road.

They look positively annoyed when, with an ‘excuse me’ and a smile, I try to get past. I was polite – don’t glare at me! – and surely there are better places to catch up than in amongst the tomatoes in Lidl? They don’t so much attempt to move out of the way, rather lean back, and I tentatively squeeze past, put a bag of spinach in my basket and swiftly move on to the distinctly less hostile cured meat section.

My initial annoyance has all but disappeared by the time I make it to the bread when, lo and behold, some pikey shoves into me and grabs at a packet of crumpets with a neon ‘30% less!’ sticker slapped on the side. Not so much as a ‘sorry’, just glee at the bargain he’s bagged. I mean, I’m all for watching the pennies but selling decorum for less than 20 pence? I think he’s been robbed.

The rest of my mission goes fairly smoothly, bar being confronted by three small children tearing around the aisles shouting at one other. However, one glance in the direction of their harassed-looking mother and I’ve got to allow it. I’ve not got to take the little buggers home; she has.

I head to the checkout. The queue’s long but it’s creeping closer and closer towards the tills. As I wait patiently, minding my own business, the woman standing behind me gets a call on her mobile and, as everyone takes a baby step forward, she promptly kicks her basket along the floor and slams it right into my heels. Given that it’s a Sunday and I am therefore wearing flip-flops (don’t ask me to explain the reasoning behind this), it hurts. A lot. I turn and glare but she’s oblivious to my irritation and pain and, in the space of the next five minutes, proceeds to do it a further four times. Does she genuinely not realise my Achilles tendons are acting as a buffer for her shopping? Or does she give herself a point for each time she manages to strike?

At long last I reach a till. I hurriedly pay the cashier, throw my purchases into bags and hobble out and towards freedom. Sod the dinner I was dreaming of, all I want now is a large glass of wine. And to do my shopping online in future. Read more by Chess.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Why do kids want to grow up to be WAGs?

CHESS TAYLOR

I had a toy farm when I was a kid – a scale toy farm. It was my pride and joy. I’d meticulously construct haynets from bits of cotton, pitchforks from twigs and safety-pins, fill the sheep dip with water and the stables with straw (or sawdust for housing those with a dust allergy). It was the bane of my parents’ lives; my mum lived in fear of knocking livestock over with the Hoover and my dad didn’t hear a news report or game of rugby that wasn’t interspersed with animal noises for a good 18 months.

I would declare: “When I grow up I want to be a farmer. No! I want to be a vet who’s married to a farmer and has lots of horses and dogs and I can sing to them!”

This was a few steps on from the initial “When I grow up I want to be a pony.”

These days, however, it seems that little girls’ aspirations are not quite so ... childlike. They want to be somebody, not in the sense of an astronaut or a teacher, but famous. And rich. I recently read that most girls now dream of pop stardom or being a WAG. I’m not arrogant enough to dismiss being a chart sensation as a career but it and WAGdom (and the sentiment behind the aspiration) have two common factors: fame and money. The talent element doesn’t seem to feature as highly as the desire for big hair, an even bigger house and enough jewellery to give B.A. Baracus a run for his money. Kids still want to become the people they look up to; it’s just that the objects of their admiration have altered somewhat.

Celebrity gossip magazines and Big Brother et al put a bit of a nasty taste in my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a snob, and in fact furtive glances at the Daily Mail’s online TV and showbiz section are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine (and apparently of my sister’s although this took much gentle coaxing for her to confess) but I really object to the fact that becoming well known can take little more than a seedy kiss-and-tell or falling out of Mahiki flashing your bits after a stint on a low-rent reality show.

The part that I don’t simply object to but find, quite frankly, upsetting is that young girls look at those women, that lifestyle and want a part of it without realising that, by and large, it’s ... well, kind of skanky and, over and above picking one’s preferred shade of nail varnish/ tan, not exactly brain-taxing.

“Hey kids, get fake tits, shag a footballer and live the dream!”

What’s wrong with wanting to be a brain surgeon or SpongeBob Squarepants? Read more By Chess.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Special offer: Nothing for the price of something

CHESS TAYLOR

After being discharged from hospital following a particularly nasty kidney infection I am disgruntled to find that some hospital bright spark has managed to put my phone and my brand new blazer in a puddle of bleach.

Now, not only has my only means of communication been snatched from me but it basically looks as though a baby has vomited over my left shoulder.

After mourning the loss of my new favourite, twice-worn jacket and spending a few more days in bed recovering, I decide it’s about time to reconnect with the outside world. Off I trundle to the local phone shop. Swarovski-encrusted BlackBerry covers glimmer and wink at me through the window, and a sign outside proclaims: “We can fix anything!!!” I’m feeling pretty optimistic. With hindsight this is probably due to prescription painkillers.

I explain my predicament to a fast-talking guy with the most precise facial hair I have ever witnessed, who assures me that for a “mere” 30 pounds I can expect a fully-functioning phone within 24 hours. If they are unable to repair it, my money will be refunded, no fuss. Excellent, I think. I hand over three crisp 10-pound-notes without baulking at their request for a cash-only payment (due, apparently, to their card machine being broken).

Two days later I return, still high on painkillers and excited by the prospect of discussing that afternoon’s Ricki Lake marathon over text with whoever will listen. Goatee’s halfway through an impressive sales patter but acknowledges my presence with a nod and a smile, so I wait patiently. A few minutes later he reunites me with my baby who is now sporting a masking tape bandage with “WATER DAMAGE – FIXED” written across it. At last! I scamper home and settle myself in for an afternoon of “Girlfriend, if your butt wasn’t flat, you’d be all that” ... Or something.

An hour later and in true Ricki spirit I pick up my phone and begin to type: “Dump that zero and get yourself a h –”. Bollocks. It’s died on me. No matter. I switch it back on and try again. This time I don’t even get as far as typing “zero”. I think it’s broken. I feel deflated. I can’t concentrate on Ricki anymore. The phone thing’s burst my bubble; I think about ringing someone for a moan – and then remember I can’t.

“Goatee hands it over with what looks suspiciously like the same piece of masking tape on the back. He’s trying to make me pay for providing me with precisely no service.”

The next day I make my third trip to the shop. Goatee is trying to surreptitiously eat a chicken thigh below the counter and the smell of grease is permeating the entire establishment. He attempts justification – “late lunch” – then grins inanely before taking another bite and wiping his hands on his trousers. I give him the phone back, telling him it doesn’t appear to be working. He looks shocked, declaring “this never usually happens”, but agrees to have another look, free of charge of course. I make a hasty exit and fleetingly contemplate KFC.

A new day dawns and another trip beckons. I have started to feel somewhat apathetic towards my phone but still want it back on principle. On cue, Goatee hands it over with what looks suspiciously like the same piece of masking tape on the back. I decide to try it out there and then and insert the SIM card and turn it on. Nada.

“I thought you said it was fixed.”

“Maybe it’s your battery. I can get you a new one for £9.99,” he tries.

“You see the label on the back?” I ask. “It clearly says my phone is fixed. Why are you trying to sell me a battery?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, sometimes it’s just that the battery’s broken so ...I’ll go get you one now.” He heads to the back wall where the batteries hang on racks.

“Can I just get my 30 quid back instead, please?”

He stops. “Well you see, darling, I’ve had costs. I don’t get these things looked at for free innit.” He’s trying to make me pay for providing me with precisely no service. He’s trying to make me pay twice for no service. I articulate this to him in no uncertain terms and cause such a scene he is forced to give me my money back.

I feel quite self-satisfied as he glowers at me; I’ve won this one. I leave with a spring in my step and my friend’s kindly-donated brick of a phone in my pocket. Never again will I step foot in a phone shop. Particularly not when on statutory sick pay. Read more by Chess.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Quiet Zone: where nobody can hear you scream

CHESS TAYLOR

The test of good manners is to be able to put up pleasantly with bad ones.

I hate travelling at the best of times. And I mean hate it. It makes me feel uncomfortable, crotchety and a bit sick. To combat my particular abhorrence of train travel I always make sure to book a seat in the Quiet Zone.

Ah, the Quiet Zone, my noise-free sanctuary. No iPods blaring Euro-dance, no cretinous idiots shouting “Hello? Hello?! Sorry, my reception keeps ... Hello?!” into their mobile phones. Just peace, quiet and the chance to have a doze. However, every time I make a booking I seem to forget the frustration such seat allocations have caused me on all previous occasions, instead opting for a rose tint and a self-satisfied smile as I type in my credit card details and pay.

The last time I made such a gross error of judgement was shortly before Christmas. After finding my seat and noting with pleasure a distinct lack of other passengers, I settle in, put my head back and close my eyes. A few others shuffle quietly into the carriage but quickly immerse themselves in books and papers. I allow myself to relax. Amateur mistake. Seconds later the tranquillity is shattered into infinitesimal pieces by the arrival of a cheeseburger-wielding, loudmouthed chav and her squabbling brats.

“Jack, just eat your fucking chips and leave Paige alone. Do you want a smack or something?”

“Oh shut up!” (My thoughts exactly.)

“Right!” She swipes at the boy, who looks no more than seven, knocking him into a chair with a thump. “Now eat them, shut up and stop messing about!”

I could quite easily clobber her at this point but I weigh up the options and decide against it. Actually, that’s a lie – I’m terrified she’ll knock me out, so instead I close my eyes again and pretend to ignore it along with everybody else. But the noise doesn’t just continue; it escalates. The kids are using profanities I’m sure I didn’t even know existed until I got to about 18, while Chavarella’s talking (loudly) to her friend on the phone about someone whose company they clearly do not enjoy whilst intermittently barking at her little darlings.

I start to glare and tut. But they’re timorous displays of annoyance; I can’t quite commit to them with the gusto I’d like because I don’t want to provoke her too much. I just want to kick her quiet-carriage-conscience into touch. I glance around to find some allies but everyone seems to be feigning ignorance. Either that or all of their senses have been immobilised. Surely I can’t be the only one driven to distraction by the incessant noise and stink of McDonald’s? Spineless so-and-sos. I continue to glare, sigh, tut, shift around and then, the final straw. Crisps. Rustling bags and open mouths.

“Excuse me?” I’m feeling brave now.

She silences the kids and all three of them stare at me. So does everyone else, thankful, anticipating some respite.

“What?”

I point at the Quiet Zone sticker on the window.

“Erm ...”

My courage is waning and I’m hoping the sticker will do the work for me. It doesn’t. I try to look imploring rather than confrontational – also unsuccessful. I’ve just got to spit it out.

“Would you mind keeping it down a bit?”

She eyes me with amusement. “Sorry, are we disturbing you?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Erm ...”

And that’s all I can bring myself to say. Where is the show of solidarity from my fellow passengers? Why am I so gutless? And why do some people seem to think that intimidation transcends manners? I should have just cut my losses and booked a seat near the coffin-dodgers discussing the scenery.

You see, that’s the thing about the Quiet Zone: sitting there just makes travelling an infinitely more unpleasant experience than usual. Read more by Chess.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net