Trouble with the Neighbours

I live in a three-storey 1960s town house. It is the middle one of a block of five.

Well I have to tell you, the neighbours on the left, Tommy and Sue, they were making a terrible racket last night, singing at the top of their voices and banging around ‘til gone 3.30. Well I thought, it is Saturday night and maybe they are having an X Factor party. One has to be tolerant and all that, but they could at least have warned me.

But then I was woken up at 9 this morning and it was all going on again. A terrible commotion. I peered out of the front window, and there seemed to be a lot of people milling about. Then I noticed that on the end house, the one on the other side of Tommy’s, in their front garden had appeared one of those pub style wooden tables with attached benches, and there were four Hassids, black hats, beards, the lot, sitting at the table stuffing their faces.

I went downstairs to investigate. My hallway was packed with people and the front door was open. ‘What the hell is going on?’ I thought. I went out the front. There was a man standing outside Tommy’s with a fluorescent sleeveless jacket, like the ones fire wardens and building site workers wear. “If you would just like to wait in there please” he said pointing at my house to a couple coming down the garden path.

“What the hell is going on?” I said to him.

“We’ve opened a sushi bar” said the man.

“What?” I said.

“We’ve opened a sushi bar.”

“But you haven’t got planning permission” I said.

The man in the yellow jacket shrugged.

“I demand to see the manager” I said.

“I am the manager” he said.

“Where’s Tommy?” I said.

“He’s in the back” said the man, looking towards Tommy’s house “trying to get some work done. He’s locked himself away.”

I went back into my house.

“Get out of my house” I said to no-one in particular, but no-one moved.

I went into the kitchen. A hole had been knocked through in the wall separating my kitchen from Tommy’s. I have to say it was a neat job, but the cheek of it; they hadn’t even given me any warning. On Tommy side I could see gleaming spotlights in the ceiling and a shiny silver counter with a couple of chefs working feverishly away.

I called the police. The woman who answered chastised me for calling 999 when it was not an emergency, and said I should ‘phone my local station. It took a while to find the number. There was a recorded message saying that they were shut - well it was a Sunday - and that out-of-hours police work had been outsourced to a private sector service provider. I called them and got another recorded message – “to help us deal with your enquiry please choose from one of the following options… for physical assault press 1, for burglary and theft press 2”. I pressed # “for any other enquiry”. There was a crackle and a hiss and a lady in a thick Indian accent asked how she could help. There was a disconcerting delay on the line. I explained what had happened and the lady told me that it was a civil matter not a police matter. She suggested that I contact the “relevant regulatory authority.” I asked her where she was based and she hung up.

I rang the local council but they were also shut.

I squeezed myself a fresh grapefruit and orange juice and went to sit down, but there were people sitting in all the chairs.

“This is my chair” I said to a young man with overly slicked hair.

“Oh is it” he said, carrying on reading my paper.

“Yes it is. Can you please get up.”

“Gonna make me?” he said.

“Yes, if needs be” I said.

He ignored me.

I pulled the chair back and lifted him up by his armpits. I landed a hard hook to his midriff with my right hand and, as he hunched forward, swung a beautiful upper hook with my left, catching him clean on the chin, following up with a right cross.

Somebody grabbed me from behind. I elbowed him, swivelled around and swung a left jab, followed by a left back hand and a quick right.

That was the last thing I remember before waking up here.