Over the years I have had quite a couple of “weird” neighbours, not worth mentioning however, that they probably regarded me weird as well. The latest spat though, was a chart topper of note.
On one beautiful Saturday morning in December I was busy at the back, raking some flowerbeds while contemplating the need of trees to shed so many leaves, in summer nogal. Suddenly a high pitched voice started interfering with my solitude, rocking my core and adjusting my heartbeat. I am a music lover, so I decide to take the Irish folk songs and shift them to the background, while resuming contemplation of the Karee.
I can only rely on my experience when mentioning that even the most ardent music fan will, from time to time, change the band or even the type of music after having rocked to a particular outfit for over an hour. Not my neighbour; mind you, he is a flat-rat living on the property of my neighbour in a renovated servants quarter. After an hour and a half (and mastering the Irish accent perfectly), while fighting off my Scotty who constantly attacks my rake, I pop my head over the wall as I see him pass and ask in my most accommodating tone of voice if the possibility of turning the volume down a notch would be an acceptable request. The answer was an anger filled retort of how the world is also his to make a noise in, pointing reference to my loud braais with friends late at night, and that I could call the “pigs” if I so wished. I just told him that I wouldn't just call the cops, I’d call the flying pigs, upon which he gave me a blank stare.
I realised that I was faced with two options. Either I get even or let it slide and just carry on raking, kind of live to fight another day. Well, with me being the sensitive and introverted type, I decided to get even. I hauled out AC/DC’s 1978 live album, Judas Priest’s Ram it down and (you guessed it…) Rammstein’s Liebe ist fur alle da. I actually did him a favour with the varied selection of rock masters. I punted the old Pioneer hi-fi (which I keep at the back for a kuier or two) and pointed the trusty volume dial to seven and a half (loud enough for the neighbourhood to rock on and a good setting for the amp not to overheat). We weren’t even into the third song when “ol pig” shut his backdoor with a bang. Insensitive I tell you.
Last week Tuesday, upon my return from an arduous mall excursion, I notice a big tree branch lying on top of my Clivias, cut down on the border of mine and pig’s side and chucked over the wall; my flower bed strewn with a billion wood chips and sawdust particles. As I glance over the wall, the pig and his landlord seemingly teamed up to decide that my tree branch was unwelcome over their property and had to be returned to the rightful owner, flattening my pride and joy. I was going to tell them that in a peaceful and accommodating society like ours, we discard what we prune; but I was the sensitive guy again, I lumped it.
It was around five a.m. when I released the Condy’s crystals in his pool and koi pond. It was such a pretty purple sight and I even made sure the mixture for the pond was right to not affect the Koi – I am, after all, a lover of nature.
Now I await the pigs…
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