Something
must be done.
Call
me Constable Care, but something must be done to turn this shambles into a case
of “citizens' watch”, instead of “watch for citizens”.
You
see, I live in a cul-de-sac. There are a number of driveways that connect to
the same bitumen circle like a multi-handle frying pan. The circle is so small
that sometimes, when we put the bins out, they touch.
Besides the pop-up appearances of the bins, and the choir of dogs, I would say my street is empty. It is just me and the hounds.
According
to early evening tele-dramas, I should be intimately involved in my
neighbours lives; I should know their birthdays and bring them jelly when
they're sick. We should all sit at the local cafe and gossip about the
newcomers; “Have you seen the furniture they're having put in? I was watching
the other day as I put my bin next to your bin.”
Truth
is - I don't even know what they look like.
This
came to my attention after Dad put the bins out. He came inside and said “Bill's
dead”. I said, "Who's Bill?" Bill was on our left, for ten years. Mum was the most upset
because she'd borrowed a whisk from Bill about two years ago. Then I thought, if I took my puppies walking, and we ran into a neighbour who was also puppy-walking, the dogs would recognise each other and we wouldn't. “So sorry,” we would say, wrenching our respective dogs from the other's respective butt.
I want to know them; I want to get to that point in a neighbourly relationship where we bring each other basic food stuffs when the other runs out. But I know I'm too impatient for that. I know I'll start delivering barrels of wholemeal flour if they so much as look at me.
So, I want to say something to my phantom neighbours. I want to begin with “Hey guys”, and “I'm the one with the poodle.” I want to suggest a get-to-know-ya street party with baked goods and bubbly. I want the dogs to introduce us (“Master, this is number 35. Number 35, Master.”).
Now, I want to say something to Bill's widow, just between us.
I'm sorry I don't know your name and that I never knew Bill. I'm also sorry that mum never returned that whisk. If you receive the whisk, a packet of wholemeal flour, some eggs and other essentials, they're from me, number 40.
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