People in London just don’t talk to their neighbours. I’ve lived in four flats here now, and in that time I’ve had far fewer interactions with those living nearest me than I ever did in the North, and I think that’s a shame.

Let’s take it case by case shall we?

Current Flat - North London

We have three sets of neighbours here. One to the left, one to the right and one above. I’ve never seen those that live to the right of our flat, as far as I know they could very well not exist.

On the left is seemingly lovely family that we never hear. I’ve spoken to the gentleman once, when we had been given some of their post.

This is despite many an opportunity, as he can often be found having a cigarette in the garden, but our interactions have never gone far beyond that initial, acknowledging nod of recognition which men seem to love so much. I have a suspicion that English may not be his first language based on the limited words we have shared in our time.

Our above neighbours are an interesting case study.

Our limited relationship began one week when we’d taken in a parcel for them. After a few days, no one had been round, and so I went to knock on their door to little avail, leaving a note with my number through the letterbox. No text for another few days.

Roll forward to Friday night, circa 2300. I was typing away on my keyboard, headphones in, as is so often how I spend my evenings at home, when I began to smell smoke, or more specifically cigarette smoke. Now, in my amazement, I pronounced, out loud, “who the fuck is having a fag at this time?” and went back to typing away. A mindless expression.

Two minutes later, I got the following text message:


Mildly mortifying, but on the whole quite a funny interaction I would say. We had a bit of chat, she said she’d come to get the parcel, and we said we’d get both flats together for a drink sometime.

Well intended, but alas I suspect this drink isn’t going to happen, not least given it’s been nearly three months and we’ve barely spoken since.

Current Flat but One - West London

Here, we had but one neighbour.

It was a fairly old couple, with a disabled child, who were planning on emigrating to Spain. When we first moved in, they brought us a six pack of beer (well intentioned) and some flowers. The gentleman had a stool and table outside his front door that he’d sit on to read newspaper and play the crossword. Very homely.

At one point, they went to Spain for an extended period, house and visa hunting, and in their absence entrusted the care of their plants to us. This was received positively, with the house generally welcoming of green things that weren’t mould. They also brought us round pretty much everything you could need or want for a roast dinner, which again, was very positively received. They even let us keep the greenery after they returned (and a 2L Pyrex jug!)

This relationship was going fairly well, until the couple next door began to have fairly loud and animated arguments, most weekends.

It didn’t help that they’d have both their front and back doors open and so you really could hear everything that was going on, and this otherwise quite nice gentleman showed he had what was ultimately quite a nasty side, which made walking past him on his stool horrendously awkward, because we knew what he’d said and he knew we knew, putting a bit of a dampener on what was otherwise a very warm relationship. We never really saw the lady or the child.

Current Flat but Two - South London

I didn’t know or meet any of my neighbours here, and barely spoke to my flatmate at the time, Immy (I think). I did however have lots of chats with the landlady I lived with, the most memorable of which was when she yelled at me one Wednesday morning, shortly after I’d woken up and began to prepare for work, asking if I wanted to die.

It turned out that I’d left one of the knobs on the hob not directly on the off switch overnight, which she was not very happy about. I chose not to point out that, unless already lit, the nozzle wouldn’t release gas until the knob was pushed down and the spark ignited.

Current Flat but Three - East London

This was the first place I lived in when I moved to London, and came with both an extremely questionable set of housemates and an extremely questionable landlord - both stories for another time. I had two sets of neighbours here and never saw either of them.

I did however, meet a very nice man who lived across the road, called Lee.

Lee and I met when his window was boarded up one morning, and he was sat on step as I was heading down the gym.

Curious, I went over and asked him who he’d pissed off, which on reflection was a very bold thing to do to a bald man in the East End, but alas we got talking and it turns out he reckoned it was his ex’s daughter, out for revenge. Had it been anyone else, and he would, of course, have done them in.

He lived there with his old mum, who was in her nineties. He rode a motorbike and was a plumber (I think) and had recently stopped drinking and was lamenting the lack of social spaces in London that didn’t revolve around alcohol, which we had a good chat about. We said we’d go to the gym together at some point, but of course, this never happened.

And So…

Now I know what you’re thinking, that’s a fair few interactions - but the very fact that I can write all of my neighbourly interactions in London in one sitting is lamentable at best and a damning indictment against living in London at worst.

Next time, I’ll try to write up some memorable interactions (for to capture them all would be a lifetime’s work) from North of the M62.