The one in which I start a war with my neighbours. Or have sex with them.

• By Alison
• 12 May, 2010
• 3 Comments

I start so many blog posts in my head, get to about the third paragraph, then forget the entire thing. Which is a real shame, because I am hugely witty in my head. Words flow very easily in my mind in a way that they don’t necessarily do if I speak them out loud.

In my head I am very eloquent. But really, it’s only relevant to an audience of one. If I can entertain myself, then job done! That’s probably why when I’m alone I hold conversations with myself and monologue in silly voices.

But the trick is not knowing how to push your own buttons, but how to push those of other people.

The meaning behind words is a delicate balance, which is further tipped by the various interpretations that a reader might take from them. The nuances of a written word could have one reader feeling slighted, while another felt vindicated.

Which is why I have to go back one street tomorrow, find the 9th house down from the corner, knock on the door, and introduce myself to the owner – rather than write a note about the prunings that they’ve left in our back passage.

I have a fear – a big fear – that anything I might write will fail to straddle the razor thin line between passive agressive and condescending when I attempt to suggest that they surely did not INTENTIONALLY (but very carefully) lay their tree prunings all along the back access lane of three houses rather than actually bother to take them to the tip.

Of course it’s ENTIRELY possible that those branches landed in that well adjusted and end to end position of their own accord as they were sawn from the tree. And it’s totally reasonable to imagine that the three weeks that have past since that fateful day are just an oversight – perhaps the man who pruneth broke his leg and is waiting for the cast to come off before he clears up.

I am not sure that either of those eventualities are particularly likely. The latter perhaps, but the former I am sure would require some kind of cosmic intervention. Like our suburb rolling to the left suddenly. I am sure i’d have noticed that.

So you see my problem – I can’t write a note addressing this thorny issue. It would end up with a very large dose of sark and a dollop of insult.

But the realistic thought of knocking on the door and saying “hello, are you the selfish twat breath who thought we wouldn’t notice two trees worth of prunings underfoot when we try and wheel bicycles towards the road?” in a way that totally fails to incite a riot is a seriously daunting one.

The way it’s going to play is probably going to involve a large amount of shrugging, ending sentences with a trailing “so… er…” and ending up suggesting that we wouldn’t mind using it as decking perhaps – so maybe I could take a basket weaving course in order to achieve that.

Bugger that – if anyone should be weaving baskets with the stuff it’s her.

And let’s not forget that the mere act of pruning – with or without the dumping of the sticks – means that we now have a clear view through what was once a lovely big green privacy screen. As do they.

So I was standing at our bedroom window today, stark naked, when it occurred to me that perhaps the whole pruning thing is a farce – a ploy. Maybe they like to watch. Perhaps it was designed to make me come over there. All hot and flushed. Fired up with passion. What words might I fire out in the heat of the moment?

They’ve probably been planning it for months. peering through the semi dressed branches (oh God, now the tree is stripping) during the winter seasons. Catching glimpses of my softly sagging backside, my muffin tops and my mini tits.

The truth is frighteningly clear. Our neighbours are swingers.

Or they want to boil me up and eat me.

Perhaps I won’t mention the tree. Come to think of it, the branches would make a nice lattice basket for a giant.