Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned

In the lifetime of this blog, I've really just blogged about incidents and people who have interrupted my life and the private space in which I live. The hoors and the 24 hour party people, for example. I can't think of any occassion where I've gone out of my way to find something to write about.

This didn't just start when the hoors moved in. In fact, I was just thinking back to the time I first moved into this flat around 8 or 9 years ago...

In those days I was sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the livingroom because I had hauled off the woodchip on the bedroom walls in a brave fit of decorating bravado and half the walls had come with it... I had a kettle and a microwave and was living on potnoodles and every night I fell asleep after a hard days DIY with the smell of fresh paint in my nose and a dangerous amount of plaster dust in my lungs. Ah them were the days.

It was the start of summer and warm enough to sleep with the windows open. I read a bit of an article on how to remove artex, switched off the light and stretched out, making myself rather seasick. Aaaah my first night in my own flat!

So it was about 1am and I had just dropped off to sleep when I was awakened by what the papers would call a commotion in the street. A great deal of noise was being caused by some ropey looking auld culloch who I would have had to have described in great detail 8 years ago... but conveniently (and topically) I now just need to say that she looked just like Jade Goody's mum BEFORE the makeover. Really she did! Except she had the full compliment of arms.

Anyway. I spent most of the first bout of commotion on my inflatable mattress wondering what the hell kind of neighbourhood I'd moved in to (hah. I hadn't seen anything yet).

"Yer a bastard John Smith!* An effin bastard! I ken well whit you did wi that sluT (she emphasised the T) and by the time ah'm finished, the entire bloody street will ken an' a'! Ye cheatin BASTARD!"

And indeed we did, over the next five minutes, find out what he'd done with the sluT. In quite a lot of detail I won't go in to here. It's the kind of stuff you can usually find in "Take A Break" or on Trisha. Finally she finished and demanded that the silent John Smith come out in to the street and face her. Wisely, he remained inside.

"Get oot here, ye wee shite! Get oot here an face mi! C'moan oot here and stand up tae yer poor sufferin' wife ye cheatin bastard - or are ye too feart tae leave that Hoooooor of yours!?!? " - Looking back, this woman was practically a fortuneteller. Who'd have thought back then that within a few months our very own Hoors would move in.

After about half an hour there was silence and I thought it was all over and that it was safe to go back to sleep. But NO. Just as I was drifting off again, there was more to come.

"Right John! Ah'm back and if yer still dinna care enough fur me tae come oot and face mi, then ah'm gaen fur something ye dae care abooot!"

OK OK OK Wumman. I'm getting out of my bed. So I stood at my (still curtainless) windows and to my surprise was faced with the sight of all my neighbours across the road looking out of their windows at the free entertainment. This was a sight I'd become familiar with in later years when the Hoors and other had their fights in the street. To give you a better mental picture, it's kind of like a big grey granite colusseum but with Aberdonians in their underwear drinking tennents instead of toga'd roman gentlefolk sipping wine.

I was just in time too, for the entertainment was just about to begin. With the energy of one posessed, she hauled herself up on top of a dustbin and started to rip a branch off a tree. This done, she approached a rather nice car parked opposite our tenement and yelled out (as if to the world) "Right John! huv ah got yer attention now!?" before proceeding to energetically whack the windscreen with the leafy end with all the energy of a woman possessed.

After a while, she noticed she wasn't getting very far with this and jumped on to the bonnet of the car so as to cause a bit more damage. This didn't work, so the branch was flung away and she got down and looked around to see what else she could do. She spied a brick. Hilariously, it bounced off the windscreen. "There ye are, ye bastard!!!" she cried (possibly oblivious to the bricks lack of damage).

Unperturbed, the windscreen wipers were next. She wasn't quite strong enough to pull them off entirely, but did manage to twist them into something worthy of the Tate Modern. The left wing mirror was then given a kick, then a tug, then a kick, then a tug until it finally came off in her hands.

Triumphant (and quite exhausted and filthy by now) she lobbed the wing mirror at his front door screaming "Right! Ye Cheating Shite! - fit dae ye think o' that!?!" and off she strutted up the street. John Smith remained in his flat and didn't show himself to the dissapointed audience of residents who were undoubtedly awaiting his appearance for a final showdown. By the time I got up next morning, the car was gone and the angry wumman was never seen again...

*again, names changed to protect the poor sod and to protect me from getting sued

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