We do the Open-House inspection, maybe a little nosey, but justified, on the neighbourly need-to-know ratings scale! A few weeks later, we are in the street with the small crowd, watching as the well-dressed Agent whips the bidders into a competitive frenzy. We come away slightly dazzled at the implications for our own property values!
The removal truck duly arrives. The blue-haired tattoo sends a cheery wave in our direction, then secures her big, dark Rottweiler to a verandah post. It makes periodic lunges as the guys move the furniture in, barking excitedly as the ‘bump-in’ continues.
We maintain our observation through the lounge’s sheers. Some nice antique pieces are going in, as well as some nasty flat-pack looking stuff. We see a chap, also heavily tattooed, with a goatee beard and a mullet haircut, arrive in a late-model Bimmer. He yells a couple of instructions to Blue-Hair, then leaves!
A few days later, Dulcie ventures next door with a plate of freshly-baked oatmeal biscuits. Blue-Hair accepts the welcoming tray perfunctorily, offers thanks, then closes the door.
On that first Saturday night, the neighbourhood learns that the newbies’ preferred music is reggae and hip-hop. I reckon I get to sleep sometime after four. Music, laughter, breaking glass, cars and the loudly barking dog suggest that the house is now satisfactorily ‘warmed’! Things shift down a gear from here!
Dog-walking does not include poo-collection. Several of us along the street note the nature strip offerings. Two nights later, the wind sends a selection of plastic recyclables from their overflowing wheelie bin into the gutter. I spend a few minutes collecting the rubbish.
Pungent aromas drift over the fence, suggesting ‘Jamaican’ tobacco. Dulcie is noticeably woozy as we take our evening tipple on the back verandah. She starts to laugh uncontrollably! The loose language starts to impose on our nightly routines, and we relocate the pre-dinner sherry and canapes into the lounge.
We try to maintain some sense of optimism, but another offering, this time our home-stewed quinces are rejected at their front door. Her blunt explanation is that neither eat fruit!
Then the surprise invitation to join them for a Friday evening soiree! We are caught off guard, but we decide to bring a good bottle of ‘fizz’, a non-vintage Moet. It hits the mark: the barbeque is warming, and while the steaks are marinating, Blue-Hair – her name is Juliette, his Geoff – roll one of their special cigarettes. It passes between them a couple of times before I realise the third round includes Dulcie!
I know something is remiss when Dulcie starts to giggle. She volunteers an old party joke, the one about the bear, up a tree in the woods. Laughter and tears, the three of them off together in some hysterical nirvana. I note the Moet has more to offer. I enjoy the remaining libation and join in the merriment.
Nobody notices the rottweiler. Gunter’s his name, with paws on the counter, he’s noisily gobbling the fillet steaks!