Neighbours

Just to be clear, I'm not talking about the Australian soap - does it even exist anymore? I could digress here, and take a little trip down memory lane, and talk about the days when Neighbours the tv show was a brand new phenomenon, showing us that a window into so-called ordinary people's lives didn't have to take place in a pub amidst rows of red-bricked terraced houses with back yards and inclement weather, or even in  a pub amidst stone cottages and farms and inclement weather, but instead in the golden Australian sunshine, where people smiled and sung, some even carving out a rather successful career later on - yes Kylie, with the unnaturally firm buttocks, I'm talking about you.

However, instead I will stick to the intended subject here - Neighbours. In the concise Oxford English Dictionary, definition 2b is as follows;  a fellow human being, esp. as having claims on friendship. So more than just a person who happens to live next to or near to us.  The thing with neighbours, like families, is that you can't choose them.  It's a lottery and you generally get what you're given, unless you're very very rich and can choose not to have any at all - like Kylie, or the Queen.

So, since I am neither the Queen, nor Kylie (with the unnaturally firm buttocks), I have neighbours.  Or, to be more precise, I did have neighbours. Until they moved out.  I will probably get some new ones soon. But quite frankly, I'd rather have the old ones back.  I liked them.  And against all probability, and quite by chance, we became friends - enjoying chats over the garden fence, sharing cooking apples from our tree, and even sharing recipes.  And this is where it all gets tricky.  You see, for me, sharing recipes is a commitment to something far greater than passing acquaintances and chats over the fence.  It is bonding in the most profound sense.  I would not share recipes with just anyone, you know.  It would be like sharing my most secret of secrets, baring my soul even.  A little over-dramatic? Maybe. But trust me, if you've ever tasted Marlena'sApple Jablcznik you'd know what I'm talking about. And I would hope she'd agree having tasted my apple almond pudding, my Norwegian apple cake or even my apple crumble.

Sadly our days of chatting over the fence, or on the front doorstep are over, but hopefully we'll continue to share apples and recipes for a long time to come.  And in the meantime, whoever you are, future neighbour, I hope we will like each other even half as much. In the words of the poetic theme tune, 'Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours'. And on that note, I must go now, it's almost  time for my drumming group to arrive, and then I need to cut the grass - I find it always helps me sleep if I'm suffering with a little insomnia. Oh, and those floors need sanding too ... welcome to our street. I hope you'll be just as happy as we are!

A Quick Rant About Bureaucracy

I rather like this planet. I think we should all be doing our bit to preserve it. I recycle as much as I can. Actually, strictly speaking, I recycle as much as my so-called Recycling centre will allow. Which isn't a lot.
Actually, maybe it is a lot. But the things that I generally want to get rid of, like old bits of plasterboard or dried up tins of paint which I kept in case I needed to touch up a bit of wall at some later date but never did and actually didn't put the lid on properly so it got a two inch skin on it and is all but useless now anyway, they refuse to accept, in a rather patronizing manner which makes me feel like a cross between a naughty school girl and a criminal mastermind. We're not allowed to accept it, they inform me without a hint of apology or remorse. It says it on the gate, they add, like that should make me feel better. It doesn't.
You have to go to a main recycling centre, they tell me. Where's that then, I say. Sixteen miles away, they reply. What! I reply with indignation. There is another one, they add. Where? I say. Fifty two miles away. You Are Joking, I bellow in disbelief. They stare at me in a way that tells me they're not. Other people are now looking at me. Possibly in admiration or else in fear. I don't blame them. If I saw a ranting mad woman brandishing three 12 inch square pieces of plasterboard, I too might feel alarmed.
I feel a sense of fury and despair.
I am so angry I could cry. So I do. I just wanted to put my pathetic little scraps of plasterboard in the waste to landfill bin. That's all. It's not too much to ask is it? I do consider punching the most patronising of them, but I don't suppose that's allowed either.
The despair quickly follows.  Where will it end, I wonder, in a possibly overly dramatic fashion. I am reminded of a book my son had when he was small - Mrs Lather's Laundry. One day, she gets so fed up with doing everyone's laundry, she puts up a sign on the door - we wash anything except laundry.
I expect that next time I go to the recycling centre there will be a new sign on the gate; We Recycle Anything Except Your Rubbish.
You read it it here first.