I can't remember if I ever wrote about this, but we were talking about it in the pub the other night.
Once, long ago in the late 90's, we (the residents of the tenement) found out that Our Neighbours Were Hoors.
Our first reactions on discovering this? Well, they included gossiping between neighbours behind closed doors over cups of tea (and in the case of the dead man, a Tennents Stubby), reporting them to the honorable polis of the grey toon (who didn't really care), and watching the sweet little old lady across the road note down the registration number of every car that parked outside. My father at this time made a point of telling everyone who would listen that his daughter lived there and he was just doing a bit of DIY for her and definitely wasn't a "visiting uncle."
Our first emotions? Well, they varied from stunned shock to indignant NIMBY* outrage to exasperated acceptance.
And it was during this final emotion that our old upstairs neighbour, J (Hi J!), was sorting the mail one day at the bottom of the stairs when a punter was buzzed into the entranceway. I expect, so early on in our knowledge of the brothel, her immediate response was that of flight or fight. And, being a little pissed off at the growing business on our ground floor, her first reaction was to do this (in her best ringmaster style):
"WELCOME TO THE *insert street name* BROTHEL!!!"
And then she did Jazz Hands.
There are very few good excuses in life to do Jazz Hands, and I think dear readers that you'll agree this was one of them.
Wiki link for those of you who don't know what Jazz Hands are
P.S. Typing "jazz hands" into google image search is one of the funniest things I've done... well... ALL DAY!
*NIMBY - Not In My Back Yard!