But if brownie points were degrees celsius, my current score in the ’hood would be somewhere just above freezing with some sub-Arctic temperatures forecast.
The reason for this serious change in atmosphere? Well, I suppose it may be something to do with the slight inconvenience of noise, dust and waste removal caused by the massive renovations at my wee home.
The street is fairly narrow and car parking spaces are not exactly 10 a penny, not even when you convert to euros. So when the builder’s van pulls up, with a large truck carrying a skip hot on his heels, local residents could be excused for wishing they had never seen my first-time buyer’s smiley face.
In fairness, even I had no idea that such a small cottage could produce such an enormous amount of rubble. Mind you, the ownership of some of the items to be found in the skip is debatable: I don’t recall any old bicycles and traffic cones being part of the contents of the sale of the house. And that iron bath, surely I would have noticed . . . nope, I don’t believe the cottage came with a bathroom in the first place.
One or two enormous skips could have taken the waste, but the access to the site wasn’t wide enough.
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Enter, instead, an endless conveyor belt of itsy-bitsy miniature industrial bins that fill up faster than a free Luas. The neighbours are horrified. Every time one is removed a huge collective sigh of relief is practically audible as they think: “That must be the last, sure how could there be any more waste? Dear Mother of God is that another one I see coming up the street?” These babies just keep on comin’, like water from a broken tap, drip drip drip. Only being lorries the noise is somewhat louder — more like beep beep beep.
Neighbourly relations already in tatters even before I have moved in, the only thing I can do is put my head down, avoid all contact with them nextdoors, and wait it out.
Perhaps on moving in I could pretend my (fictitious) identical twin sister, who was actually the architect, had kept me in the dark about the terrible noise pollution. “Four skips in one week, you say? Ah sure, that’s just not on. If only I had known.”
Unfortunately the builder had other ideas. He wanted to do “a little work” to the party wall shared with the neighbouring cottage and asked me to go round and talk to them.
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Do not be misled by the festive title, as discussions regarding these boundaries generally do not have a party atmosphere about them, especially when it means a hefty chap with a lump hammer will be pounding on the side of your house for a few days. Spend a day exposed to that sort of racket and even the most neighbourly neighbour could be excused for taking umbrage.
I sighed, but promised to talk to them. So, with the garish yellow construction hat on (and some riot gear for extra protection), I called in, ready for the worst. The bombardment was fast and furious all right, along the lines of “Will you have some tea, you will, go on, go on, go on.” Mrs Doyle, eat your heart out. Several cups later I left, with tears in my eyes at the family’s good cheer in the face of the noisy obliteration of my house.
Assuring them the worst was over, I stepped out onto the pavement only to be bowled over by a mini-skip lorry screeching to a halt at my door. Good job I still had the hard hat on.