The Street Where I Live

One of the biggest advantages of living in Britain is the outdoor Herfing Season is much longer. (For those of you who are not cigar aficionados, a Herf is when two or more cigar smokers get together for the express purpose of smoking, enjoying, discussing and, quite likely, exchanging and fondling, cigars. I suppose then, the purist would maintain that what I'm doing isn't herfing; having a cigar by yourself and calling it a herf is like saying you have a sex life because you stayed at home on Saturday night to slap Mr. Johnson around.)

The alfresco herfing season, in fact, like the Brighton Pier, never really closes; it just slows down a bit during the winter. This is especially important due to the impending smoking ban (coming to a pub near you 1 July 2007). It is already illegal to smoke indoors in Scotland and several European counties, and once the EU jumps on the bandwagon, if you want to enjoy a rollie with your pint, you'll have to go to Asia or Africa. I think it's a silly law, but I'm not getting my knickers in a twist over it, not as long as I can nip out here for a smoke. And herfing on the balcony has the extra advantage of keeping me from drinking too much as well as providing an excuse to keep an eye on my neighbors.

From my perch, I have a view of approximately 20 other apartments. I don't make a habit of peeping on them, but if someone walks in front of a window, it's hard to miss it (and here I don't need a telescope like I did back in the US).

The demographics of our little block of flats have undergone a dramatic shift since my arrival. A few years back, the residents hailed from a wide selection of nations, whereas now there is a growing number of Indian families (from India, not the Mohegan Sun Casino). Before someone screams "Bigot!" allow me to stress I do not have a problem with this in the least. The Indians are quiet, hard working and friendly, all qualities I enjoy in a neighbor. No, I do not object to them, but I do miss the diversity.

When we first moved in, there were people from South Africa, Zimbabwe, Mexico and, of course, the US. There was an Englishman with a Chinese wife, a Dutch woman who used to sunbath in the nude on her balcony (I still miss her) and, in general, a lot of personality. Now it's mostly young families doing family-type things and minding their own business. It's nice, but not very amusing.

For example, the guy who lived in the ground floor flat beneath us strolled home from the pub one Saturday afternoon wearing nothing but a tee shirt. He unloaded drunken abuse on several of our neighbors (apparently there as some history there), told us all we could kiss his ass (after showing it to us) and moved out the next day. You don't get entertainment like that from people raising toddlers.

And Mr. Loud, although we were pleased to see the back of him, was another unforgettable character.

Mr. Loud lived here for a year or two and in all that time I never once heard him use his 'indoor' voice. He had no discernable job and displayed a disturbing disregard for clothing and curtains. The bulk of his time appeared to be taken up with strutting around his apartment and shouting. He shouted at his wife, he shouted at his child, he shouted at his dog, but mostly, he shouted to people over the phone, and mostly about money they owed him. I expect he was a leg-breaker for a local loan shark or a self-employed telemarketer with anger-management issues. People in neighboring apartments had to close their windows in summer, vainly attempting to keep his F-word soliloquies at bay.

His wife was no slacker, either. One memorable afternoon Mrs. Loud and an unknown woman engaged in some feminine fisticuffs in the parking lot. They drew quite a crowd before their husbands pried them apart.

Next door to our apartment is The Flat Where Nobody Lives. For two years the lights came on every evening and noise from the television seeped through the wall but I never heard a voice nor saw any sign of a human being. I became convinced the lights and TV were on a timer and the flat was empty, serving as a front for some nefarious activity, or at least a tax dodge. It also occurred to me there might be a pair of moldering pensioners slowly decomposing inside while the timers gave the illusion of life and their offspring continued to cash the pension checks.

Eventually, the people who didn't live in The Flat Where Nobody Lives moved on (or the rouse was uncovered--no one that I know of ever saw anybody leave the apartment, even feet first) and a normal couple lives there now.

Next door to The Flat Where Nobody Lives is The Man Without Pants--a quiet, middle-aged man who lives alone and always walks around his living room in a pair of orange boxer shorts. Add to this mix an eccentric American who sits on his balcony, in all manner of weather, smoking cigars and typing into something that looks like a keyboard on steroids, and you have to agree this is an interesting place to live.

Or, at least it was.

I think The Man Without Pants is moving. Most likely another family from the subcontinent will move in when he's gone; they'll be quiet and respectful and they'll always dress modestly. Again, I have no objection to this, but it would be refreshing if the person who moved in added to the diversity of the neighborhood instead of blending in so easily.

A nice young lady from Holland, perhaps.