The soap opera happening in my streets
LIVING in a small coastal village might be seen to be dull by some.
I like the fact there is nowhere to spend money I don't have; $10 schnitty night at the bowlo is about as exciting as it gets in terms of (not-so) fine dining.
But entertainment is easily found, and most of it comes in the form of neighbours and how they like to spend their time. Please note, names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Crazy Pete (CP), the hoarder down the road, has been given a clean-up order by the council. His immediate neighbour lodged a complaint after CP rang emergency services when the neighbour lit a firepit one night (dead of winter, no fire ban). It's wise to remember that those who live in glass houses - or in this case, brick veneer houses with 16 vehicles (only two of which are registered) in the front yard - probably shouldn't throw stones. Now he's gone all Marie Kondo; only four cars remain (two have wheels), the junk has mostly disappeared, and he's erected a tall fence over which he's growing a bougainvillea. Good luck with that.
Three doors down from him lives the local cougar. Carol apparently doesn't stop at younger men; blokes with a wedding ring are fair game, it seems. Consequently, not many people in our village speak to her; I do, as I'm not married and she's done nothing to upset me - yet - and I don't like being made to feel like I'm a member of the mean-girl club at school.
But I wouldn't dare invite her to share a table with neighbours as it's entirely possible she's had some dealings with at least one of them I wouldn't like discovered over the Bombe Alaska.
I delivered some leftover tiramisu to the couple next door to me after a dinner here and then remembered to my horror the wife had gone to visit the grandkids that morning. I rang her to confess immediately in case she smelt dessert on her husband when she came home.
I could write a soap opera.