Forget the asylum, the lunatics have moved to my street
I think they put something in the water on my street as I seem to be surrounded by lunatics.
On my right is my landlady, a pious and God-fearing woman (when it suits her), whose 84 years belie her childlike tantrums when things don’t go exactly her way (such as my refusal to allow her unlimited access to my house and garden). Her Christianity doesn’t seem to extend to anybody who comes from a country south of Cyprus, as demonstrated recently by her refusal to allow her housemaid to bathe more than once a week – insisting on a bucket of cold water and a sponge for the other six days, and her reluctance to feed her more than once a day. When not barking at her poor maid or throwing things at my cats, she’s proffering me views of various body parts in the belief that she is demonstrating that she is on death’s door. I have tried to point out that the very fact she can high kick her leg over my fence to show me her mottled thighs is an indication that she’s in rather good shape for someone 20 years younger, let alone her age.
On my left, resides the Adams Family. The arrival of the son is announced by Anna Vissi shrieking from his car stereo as he performs a handbrake turn into the driveway – day or night. The father shuffles up and down the street in a pair of shorts, white socks and slippers dishing out his philosophy on life like sweets. Whenever he mentions his wife he feels he has to offer some form of apology or explanation, she is never referred to by name, she is ‘my wife (She Didn’t Used To Be So Fat)’. She is rarely seen as, aside from looking after her dysfunctional family, she has two jobs. The father is currently experiencing a crisis regarding his son. Christos has fallen in love. The poor father cannot cope with this and sees it as a blight on his son’s masculinity. I have now taken to hiding whenever I see him so that I no longer have to endure conversations such as; ‘Re Victoria, he is so stupid. He is throwing his life away. He says he is in love, bah. What is love? He should be living his life. When I was his age I had many women. Too many to count. All types of women from all countries. I impregnated many of them all. Black, white, Chinese… you name it.’ And lest you think he is some kind of heartless lothario, he ended the conversation with, ‘…but I always offered them money for an abortion’. What a gent.
The sanest person on the street seems to be the mother of his wife (who Didn’t Used To Be So Fat). She’s 83 and by all accounts seems to be a bit of a wildcat. During my first week living here I bumped into my neighbour who was looking mildly incensed. ‘Do you know what time my mother-in-law came home last night?’ ‘Er, no,’ I answered. ‘2.30am’. ‘And do you know what she was doing till that time?’ ‘Er, no’. ‘Gambling’, he replied indignantly. Brilliant, I thought. I would love to have a grandmother with a bit of a wild side but it seems I am in the minority. My landlady refuses to have anything to do with her, claiming she is a ‘bad woman’, clearly under the impression that abusing your maid is perfectly acceptable but spending a few pounds over a game of cards is a sure fire way to hell and damnation.
Even the nearby kiosk is a bit of a nuthouse. Every morning Lovely Boyfriend and I go through the same argument regarding who will buy the milk and papers as it’s a procedure that can take up to 40 minutes. I have taken on an alter ego since shopping there as I realised that by giving certain answers to the questions the guy behind the counter asks could shave up to 20 minutes off the exercise. I am now 25, from England, work ten hours a day and only pay £125 rent. That way he can no longer keep telling me I look younger than 35 (very kind was becoming a little wearing), regale me with tales of Scotland (painful), berate me for having an easy life when he has to work 12 hour shifts to earn a crust (true, but was becoming a bit tedious), or tell me I’m paying way too much rent. Now we are all happy. I just have to keep remembering all the lies I tell for the next time I visit his shop.
I’ve only lived here a year but if I start displaying any signs of impending madness – having five cats and a penchant for country and western music don’t count – then I think it’s time to move on.
