Going by the plaster in the hallway and the flatpack packaging outside their door, it appears that the Hoors are getting some decorating done in their flat. Perhaps they pay good attention to my blog... and thus got to know that their flat is "a bit early Ikea."
It begs the questions:
1) Do they do their own decorating or do they "get a man in?"
2) If they've "got the painters in..." does that mean they can't work for a few days?
I was just pondering...
Well... Not that many years ago I lived above a brothel in the Grey Toon in Scotland. Out of a confused mixture of irritation and amusement, I started to blog about it.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Wha-tssssssssh!
Do I ever hear the sounds of passion? I was asked.
Not from my flat up here. Not above the bloody racket of the psycho raver downstairs anyway. However, you do occasionally hear the comedy-springs-of-passion. You never hear them in Hollywood movies.
Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeeehhh!
Then there was another time... the mail falls down behind the tennement door and i had to bend down to pick it up. It must have been something about that particular spot in the wall I was bending down next to, because all I heard was "Wha-tsssssh!" "uh!" "What-tssssssh!" "ow!" "Wha-tssssssh!"
They must be branching out...
Not from my flat up here. Not above the bloody racket of the psycho raver downstairs anyway. However, you do occasionally hear the comedy-springs-of-passion. You never hear them in Hollywood movies.
Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeeehhh!
Then there was another time... the mail falls down behind the tennement door and i had to bend down to pick it up. It must have been something about that particular spot in the wall I was bending down next to, because all I heard was "Wha-tsssssh!" "uh!" "What-tssssssh!" "ow!" "Wha-tssssssh!"
They must be branching out...
Friday, March 12, 2004
A vital and neccessary service
Not just the obvious I mean...
One day I came down the stairs to where a sad little man (sort of a cross between Rigsby and Roy Cropper off Corrie) was being bid farewell by what (one has to admit) was a rather matronly Hoor. I hovered looking at the post on the landing to give them some privacy.
"BahBye then," she said, giving him a (matronly) hug... "And I hope everything goes well with the wife..."
"Yes." he nodded sadly... "so do I. And... thanks. For everything..."
He left. She waved. She smiled up at me and went back into her boudoir.
Hoor or amateur agony aunt? Who needs Claire Rayner when you have loveable matronly hoors.
One day I came down the stairs to where a sad little man (sort of a cross between Rigsby and Roy Cropper off Corrie) was being bid farewell by what (one has to admit) was a rather matronly Hoor. I hovered looking at the post on the landing to give them some privacy.
"BahBye then," she said, giving him a (matronly) hug... "And I hope everything goes well with the wife..."
"Yes." he nodded sadly... "so do I. And... thanks. For everything..."
He left. She waved. She smiled up at me and went back into her boudoir.
Hoor or amateur agony aunt? Who needs Claire Rayner when you have loveable matronly hoors.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Why I don't want my candle back
Now... Let me get things straight.
I do not in anyway hate the hoors. I respect them for what they do, for their choice in how to make a living, for the services (both the councilling service they provide and the obvious) and also as the nice friendly lovely people that they are.
OK, I usually only see them occasionally when we happen to be coming or going at the same time and we pass briefly in the entrance hall... but they smile prettily and they are very pleasant and likeable in a cockney daaahlin' kind of way.
I mean this, I really do... and I don't want anyone to think I'm slagging them off or thinking myself better than them in anyway.
I am the first to admit I'm not the most practical person around and that common sense is not always at the front of my mind...
However. There's this one hoor? I'm not saying she's stupid! No! Just that she may not actually *think* Perhaps she was the same one with the dog turd and the doormat... I don't know. Anyway...
It is very dark in my street in the winter. Now, there are security lights that occasionally come on when you enter the tennement. Which is nice. If anyone is lurking in the stairwell... I'd like to know about it before they stab me repeatedly, who wouldn't? Quite often it's pitch black however, and I inch up the stairs in the manner of some stupid teenager from some horror film.
It was one of these times when I was coming in from work. 4.30 and it's already pitch black... So I tentatively feel around in the dark for my post and then continue my brave ascent into the unknown. And I hear something from below. "Coooeeeeeee!" "Coooeeeee Luv!"
'Lawks!' could there be a loveable country witch selling firewood in the hallway? aaaaah no. It'll be a loveable cockney hoor!
I dump my stuff in my flat (aaaah light!) and go back down where said loveable cockney hoor can just be made out in the streetlight coming in from the small window above the tennement door. She is wearing something that can only be described as "flimsy." Now get this...
"Hallo Luv! Ave you got a torch I can borrah? Only me lectric's ran aht and I cahn't see to put more money in me metah!"
"Sure" I'll go find you something, and I leave to head back up the stairs. Will a hoor laugh at the fact I have a teletubby torch? I wonder...
But before i go, she continues. "Me lectrics run aht and I've been trying to get this light out ere ta go on. It won't go on! it must be broke! Why won't it go on?"
Me: "Ummm. did you say your electricity's run out"
Her: "Yer"
Me: "Only, your light in the hall will be run from your lectric, I mean, electricity... So if you've got no electricity then the light won't go on"
Her: "Yer! but it wahn't go on! I tried it! It won't go on and without it I can't get me lectric back on cos i cahn't see inter the flat and I can't put me money in the lectric metah! I've been trying wiv this switch! It must be broke!"
Me: Yeah. But you have no electricity therefore it CAN'T go on. It's probably not broken at all.
Her: "Yer! but it must be broke! It won't go on!"
Me: I'll get you that torch.
So I gave up explaining and went upstairs to get her some light. Except I'll be buggered if she's borrowing my teletubbie torch. She'll probably not be able to switch it on and thus proclaim it "broke." I got her a candle and some matches and she promised to put them in my mailbox later on once she'd sorted the broken light outside. (All of a sudden someone who couldn't grasp the concept of a light not going on because she'd run out of lectric seemed to have turned into some sort of master electrician).
Anyway. The candle never appeared in my mailbox. And though it was a very nice candle, a gift, with all dragons up one side.... I don't think I want it back. You never know where it has BEEN. I've heard about hoors and candles... and i'm not talking about wax :|
Keep the bloody candle stupid loveable cockney wench.
I do not in anyway hate the hoors. I respect them for what they do, for their choice in how to make a living, for the services (both the councilling service they provide and the obvious) and also as the nice friendly lovely people that they are.
OK, I usually only see them occasionally when we happen to be coming or going at the same time and we pass briefly in the entrance hall... but they smile prettily and they are very pleasant and likeable in a cockney daaahlin' kind of way.
I mean this, I really do... and I don't want anyone to think I'm slagging them off or thinking myself better than them in anyway.
I am the first to admit I'm not the most practical person around and that common sense is not always at the front of my mind...
However. There's this one hoor? I'm not saying she's stupid! No! Just that she may not actually *think* Perhaps she was the same one with the dog turd and the doormat... I don't know. Anyway...
It is very dark in my street in the winter. Now, there are security lights that occasionally come on when you enter the tennement. Which is nice. If anyone is lurking in the stairwell... I'd like to know about it before they stab me repeatedly, who wouldn't? Quite often it's pitch black however, and I inch up the stairs in the manner of some stupid teenager from some horror film.
It was one of these times when I was coming in from work. 4.30 and it's already pitch black... So I tentatively feel around in the dark for my post and then continue my brave ascent into the unknown. And I hear something from below. "Coooeeeeeee!" "Coooeeeee Luv!"
'Lawks!' could there be a loveable country witch selling firewood in the hallway? aaaaah no. It'll be a loveable cockney hoor!
I dump my stuff in my flat (aaaah light!) and go back down where said loveable cockney hoor can just be made out in the streetlight coming in from the small window above the tennement door. She is wearing something that can only be described as "flimsy." Now get this...
"Hallo Luv! Ave you got a torch I can borrah? Only me lectric's ran aht and I cahn't see to put more money in me metah!"
"Sure" I'll go find you something, and I leave to head back up the stairs. Will a hoor laugh at the fact I have a teletubby torch? I wonder...
But before i go, she continues. "Me lectrics run aht and I've been trying to get this light out ere ta go on. It won't go on! it must be broke! Why won't it go on?"
Me: "Ummm. did you say your electricity's run out"
Her: "Yer"
Me: "Only, your light in the hall will be run from your lectric, I mean, electricity... So if you've got no electricity then the light won't go on"
Her: "Yer! but it wahn't go on! I tried it! It won't go on and without it I can't get me lectric back on cos i cahn't see inter the flat and I can't put me money in the lectric metah! I've been trying wiv this switch! It must be broke!"
Me: Yeah. But you have no electricity therefore it CAN'T go on. It's probably not broken at all.
Her: "Yer! but it must be broke! It won't go on!"
Me: I'll get you that torch.
So I gave up explaining and went upstairs to get her some light. Except I'll be buggered if she's borrowing my teletubbie torch. She'll probably not be able to switch it on and thus proclaim it "broke." I got her a candle and some matches and she promised to put them in my mailbox later on once she'd sorted the broken light outside. (All of a sudden someone who couldn't grasp the concept of a light not going on because she'd run out of lectric seemed to have turned into some sort of master electrician).
Anyway. The candle never appeared in my mailbox. And though it was a very nice candle, a gift, with all dragons up one side.... I don't think I want it back. You never know where it has BEEN. I've heard about hoors and candles... and i'm not talking about wax :|
Keep the bloody candle stupid loveable cockney wench.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
A Birthday Wish!
A Birthday Card has arrived for one of the Hoors...
Miss Diane must be celebrating a birthday, and just to make sure it gets to her and not to any other Miss Dianes in the building, the sender has specifically written "right hand buzzer" as part of the address. (They have a separate buzzer from everyone else, because they are lovely ladies and don't want any of the rest of us getting bothered. Either that or because they don't want any trade going anywhere else).
There is even a heart as the dot above the "I" of Diane!
how sweet :)
Miss Diane must be celebrating a birthday, and just to make sure it gets to her and not to any other Miss Dianes in the building, the sender has specifically written "right hand buzzer" as part of the address. (They have a separate buzzer from everyone else, because they are lovely ladies and don't want any of the rest of us getting bothered. Either that or because they don't want any trade going anywhere else).
There is even a heart as the dot above the "I" of Diane!
how sweet :)
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Sunday, January 18, 2004
One at a time - PLEASE!
So we have one of those big comunal wheely bins outside our tennement... (
And I'm using the muscles of a good friend to help me get rid of my old rusty microwave and replace it with the new, shiny, green and heavy new one...
Well, I would be... but for the two curious Little Britain-appearanced men outside my tennement. One is fat and bald and wearing a stripy polo shirt with stains on. The other is tall, thin, and hairy in manner of an inbred rottweiler. They stand outside my tennement and peruse the choice of buzzers. Hmm! would it be the 8 innocent character-free ones with sir-names on them? or would it be the big shiny las vegas one, with "PROSTITUTION" suggested by the titilating blank buzzer button?
Hmm. Let us just press them all whilst the angstful duo with the green microwave accross the street stand glaring at us waiting for us to enter the building.
So ... that's what they did. and eventually they got let into the building, allowing us to set up the new, sparkly, microwave (yay!)
So. We plug in the microwave, sneak down the stairs and hear someone leave the building. The two gentlemen are nowhere to be seen. Just a sad, hairy man ambling down the street ON HIS OWN. Can it be true!? Can the hoors be so discerning that they only service one at a time?
Surely they'd get discount if there are two of them?
Or does Jasmine dislike hairy backs?
Perhaps we will never know :(
And I'm using the muscles of a good friend to help me get rid of my old rusty microwave and replace it with the new, shiny, green and heavy new one...
Well, I would be... but for the two curious Little Britain-appearanced men outside my tennement. One is fat and bald and wearing a stripy polo shirt with stains on. The other is tall, thin, and hairy in manner of an inbred rottweiler. They stand outside my tennement and peruse the choice of buzzers. Hmm! would it be the 8 innocent character-free ones with sir-names on them? or would it be the big shiny las vegas one, with "PROSTITUTION" suggested by the titilating blank buzzer button?
Hmm. Let us just press them all whilst the angstful duo with the green microwave accross the street stand glaring at us waiting for us to enter the building.
So ... that's what they did. and eventually they got let into the building, allowing us to set up the new, sparkly, microwave (yay!)
So. We plug in the microwave, sneak down the stairs and hear someone leave the building. The two gentlemen are nowhere to be seen. Just a sad, hairy man ambling down the street ON HIS OWN. Can it be true!? Can the hoors be so discerning that they only service one at a time?
Surely they'd get discount if there are two of them?
Or does Jasmine dislike hairy backs?
Perhaps we will never know :(
Thursday, January 01, 2004
New Years Drama
Not only have I got prostitutes for neighbours... I have also got an assortment of other entertaining neighbours. Visits from one of the 3 emergency services appear to be commonplace in our tennement. Today I returned from New Year festivities in the country to discover an ambulance and a police car in the street outside. What Now?
I've made a couple of trips to the car to get those vital few items I accidentally left in my car, I've asked the various people hanging round the tennement door if "everything is ok?" and I've peered into the ground floor flat as much as I can without looking like I'm TOTALLY nosy... but I still don't know why someone is currently screaming out loud in agony.
I'd make a rubbish private detective. The little old lady accross the road is practically hanging out her bedroom window trying to get gossip.
I've made a couple of trips to the car to get those vital few items I accidentally left in my car, I've asked the various people hanging round the tennement door if "everything is ok?" and I've peered into the ground floor flat as much as I can without looking like I'm TOTALLY nosy... but I still don't know why someone is currently screaming out loud in agony.
I'd make a rubbish private detective. The little old lady accross the road is practically hanging out her bedroom window trying to get gossip.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Stupid Hoors! - A Quiz.
Ok so a big dog does a huge cartoon turd outside your tennement. One of your punters steps right in it and walks it through the entrance hall and wipes his mucky feet on your doormat.
Do you...
a) Wait til the punter has gone until you discreetly nip out in your flimsy negligee to mop up the hall and dispose of said shitty doormat?
b) The same as above, but charge the punter more?
c) Leave the hall covered in shit for 3 days until someone else finally gives up and washes it and buy yourself a nice new doormat... but instead of throwing out the old shitty doormat, just plop the new one on top. Just so everyone can enjoy the smell of dog turd for a few more days?
If you answered c) you may be a loveable cockney wench... but you are STUPID! Do you hear me? Stupid!!! STUPID!!! STUUUUPPPPIIIIIIDDDD!
Do you...
a) Wait til the punter has gone until you discreetly nip out in your flimsy negligee to mop up the hall and dispose of said shitty doormat?
b) The same as above, but charge the punter more?
c) Leave the hall covered in shit for 3 days until someone else finally gives up and washes it and buy yourself a nice new doormat... but instead of throwing out the old shitty doormat, just plop the new one on top. Just so everyone can enjoy the smell of dog turd for a few more days?
If you answered c) you may be a loveable cockney wench... but you are STUPID! Do you hear me? Stupid!!! STUPID!!! STUUUUPPPPIIIIIIDDDD!
Sunday, December 07, 2003
"Miss Yasmina"
A handwritten letter with the postmark "Manchester" has appeared on the stairs, for the attention of a "Miss Yasmina."
Like, there's actually someone in OUR block of flats called "Agnes Yasmina" or "Samantha Yasmina" or "Margaret Yasmina."
How tempted am I to go read it? Post for a Hoor! What would it say? "Thanks for the lovely time last wednesday afternoon, love Jimmy"
Miss Yasmina my arse.
Like, there's actually someone in OUR block of flats called "Agnes Yasmina" or "Samantha Yasmina" or "Margaret Yasmina."
How tempted am I to go read it? Post for a Hoor! What would it say? "Thanks for the lovely time last wednesday afternoon, love Jimmy"
Miss Yasmina my arse.
Friday, December 05, 2003
And before I forget...
The *last* time I got the Police involved in the Hoors... Wow. I was so impressed? They were doing just what I would have done in their position.
Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)
Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"
Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.
I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...
And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.
Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.
Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)
Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"
Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.
I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...
And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.
Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.
The thieves! They took it from ussss!
Bloody bastards.
When I started this blog, right, I thought it'd be a sort of twice yearly "my neighbours are hoors and I heard their bed squeaking" thing. Christ. Bloody bastards.
No sooner had I started the blog (last wednesday), expecting a quiet life and thus the least visited blog on the *planet* than I got a phonecall at work. From the bank... who ever-so-casually told me that the police were in possession of a) my bloody bank card!!! and b) my sodding cheque book!!! So. I had just opened a new bank account in which to put my hard earned savings (oooh. perhaps a deposit for a NEW FLAT) but I certainly hadn't asked for a cheque book.
"Eeeek!" thinks I... "I ordered no cheque book, some bastard must have broken into my flat!" and hared it home from work to find NOWT. It turns out that my new bank card and unrequested cheque book have been "intercepted" by persons unknown. Well. Unknown to me... Mr Nice Policeman let me know this much: "We have a woman in custody"
"A woman?" says I... "I don't suppose you know if she was one of the *ladies* from the ground floor, then?" "I can't say for sure," says he. Obviously the Police know all about my neighbours. They just have more interesting things to deal with than the odd comedy hoor who says things like "Cooeee!" and "Thanks Dearie"
The following monday... I discover that 685 sodding quid has been removed from my account (thus making it 684 quid in debt) and where have they spent the money? Was it Cartier? No. Selfridges? No. www.lovelyexpensivejewels.com? No.
Fucking JB Sports and Argos.
I mean really. Can't I even get classy thieves???
When I started this blog, right, I thought it'd be a sort of twice yearly "my neighbours are hoors and I heard their bed squeaking" thing. Christ. Bloody bastards.
No sooner had I started the blog (last wednesday), expecting a quiet life and thus the least visited blog on the *planet* than I got a phonecall at work. From the bank... who ever-so-casually told me that the police were in possession of a) my bloody bank card!!! and b) my sodding cheque book!!! So. I had just opened a new bank account in which to put my hard earned savings (oooh. perhaps a deposit for a NEW FLAT) but I certainly hadn't asked for a cheque book.
"Eeeek!" thinks I... "I ordered no cheque book, some bastard must have broken into my flat!" and hared it home from work to find NOWT. It turns out that my new bank card and unrequested cheque book have been "intercepted" by persons unknown. Well. Unknown to me... Mr Nice Policeman let me know this much: "We have a woman in custody"
"A woman?" says I... "I don't suppose you know if she was one of the *ladies* from the ground floor, then?" "I can't say for sure," says he. Obviously the Police know all about my neighbours. They just have more interesting things to deal with than the odd comedy hoor who says things like "Cooeee!" and "Thanks Dearie"
The following monday... I discover that 685 sodding quid has been removed from my account (thus making it 684 quid in debt) and where have they spent the money? Was it Cartier? No. Selfridges? No. www.lovelyexpensivejewels.com? No.
Fucking JB Sports and Argos.
I mean really. Can't I even get classy thieves???
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
How I found out
Ok so I managed to do the first post successfully AND link my web page to it - I feel SO clever!
Now these Hoors...
Since the council put stupid great wheelie bins (great enough to house an entire brothel... never mind great enough to house their rubbish) outside our flats, we have been mercifully saved from the plague of seagulls that rip open our bin bags. Yaay. This is a good thing. Trust me on this. I remember the time when I got out of my bed one fine sunny June morning to discover the seagulls had been at my neighbours' bin bags. *shudders* It didn't take too long to figure that the strawberries and *cream* (I think you know what I mean) belonged to the GROUND FLOOR LEFT flat. Seagulls obviously find used condoms as appetising as the rest of us.
They've been there for over 5 years... I bought my flat in may 1998... Three months later I noticed the ground floor flat had their own buzzer. "Interesting..." I thought... "Obviously their buzzer isn't working either." "Oooh!" I thought... "They've got a videocamera in there too!" well that's a useful thing, isn't it?
Now at this time (I think it's important for me to point out) I worked for a popular UK company, Ann Summers. And when Thai balls come through the post? Trust me. There is only one thing in the world is weighted and shaped like Thai balls... and that's Thai balls. "Interesting..." I thought... "What broad minded neighbours I have"
One day I came into the tenement. The father of the lassie in the flat across from theirs was in the lobby. "Hello" says he, frantically making eyes at the eyeshadowed blonde peeping from behind the door of Ground Floor Left...
"Interesting" thinks I... "What red lips my neighbours have..." "What lacy underwear my neighbours have..."
A week later my buzzer goes in the middle of the night, yet again... Wrong buzzer again... "Interesting..." I say to myself... "How popular my neighbours are..."
A couple of days after that, I'm in the shower getting ready to go out "ZZZZZTTTT!!!" goes my buzzer... "Arse!" goes I... "ZZZZTTTTT!" goes my buzzer... "You're early!" cries I... and lets my friend into the flat... Except it wasn't my friend... just an edgy looking young boy looking for "Jessica." "Interesting?!" says I... "No Jessica in this block of flats..." as I shut the door in his face and my beefy next door neighbour escorts him out of the building...
Two days later my upstairs neighbour (J. for those of you in the know) had a few quiet words with me. The words were something like "Do you know what's going on on the ground floor?" and in a few seconds the penny had dropped. How dumb am I?
What would my parents think?
And so the adventure began...
Now these Hoors...
Since the council put stupid great wheelie bins (great enough to house an entire brothel... never mind great enough to house their rubbish) outside our flats, we have been mercifully saved from the plague of seagulls that rip open our bin bags. Yaay. This is a good thing. Trust me on this. I remember the time when I got out of my bed one fine sunny June morning to discover the seagulls had been at my neighbours' bin bags. *shudders* It didn't take too long to figure that the strawberries and *cream* (I think you know what I mean) belonged to the GROUND FLOOR LEFT flat. Seagulls obviously find used condoms as appetising as the rest of us.
They've been there for over 5 years... I bought my flat in may 1998... Three months later I noticed the ground floor flat had their own buzzer. "Interesting..." I thought... "Obviously their buzzer isn't working either." "Oooh!" I thought... "They've got a videocamera in there too!" well that's a useful thing, isn't it?
Now at this time (I think it's important for me to point out) I worked for a popular UK company, Ann Summers. And when Thai balls come through the post? Trust me. There is only one thing in the world is weighted and shaped like Thai balls... and that's Thai balls. "Interesting..." I thought... "What broad minded neighbours I have"
One day I came into the tenement. The father of the lassie in the flat across from theirs was in the lobby. "Hello" says he, frantically making eyes at the eyeshadowed blonde peeping from behind the door of Ground Floor Left...
"Interesting" thinks I... "What red lips my neighbours have..." "What lacy underwear my neighbours have..."
A week later my buzzer goes in the middle of the night, yet again... Wrong buzzer again... "Interesting..." I say to myself... "How popular my neighbours are..."
A couple of days after that, I'm in the shower getting ready to go out "ZZZZZTTTT!!!" goes my buzzer... "Arse!" goes I... "ZZZZTTTTT!" goes my buzzer... "You're early!" cries I... and lets my friend into the flat... Except it wasn't my friend... just an edgy looking young boy looking for "Jessica." "Interesting?!" says I... "No Jessica in this block of flats..." as I shut the door in his face and my beefy next door neighbour escorts him out of the building...
Two days later my upstairs neighbour (J. for those of you in the know) had a few quiet words with me. The words were something like "Do you know what's going on on the ground floor?" and in a few seconds the penny had dropped. How dumb am I?
What would my parents think?
And so the adventure began...
My Neighbours? They're Hoors!
Ok!!!
my first blog!
I've thought of doing this from the first time I heard of blogs...
What should blogs be? Angsty obviously... I guess I could do angst...
Cutting edge? Hmmm. I can do political issues...
But the whole point of that is not to be a miserable 16 year old and whine about life... but to make a note of the activities of my NEIGHBOURS.
Yes. OHHHH how I would LOVE to have a nice little Mrs Marple character next door... Yes! I could do her shopping for her... hear about her hip... Look after her cat whilst on holiday?
But no. My neighbours are Hoors. Excuse my pronounciation (I'm Scottish)... Whores. Ladies of the night. Prostitutes...
Bawds... Call girls... Courtesans... Fallen Women... Filles de Joie... Harlots... Hookers... Hustlers... Loose Women... Molls... Pros... Streetwalkers... Strumpets... Tarts... Trollops... Women on the game... Women employed by the oldest profession... WOMEN OF NEGOTIABLE AFFECTION!!!
Which can be entertaining. Which is mainly the point of my blog.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not against them. I'm all for them! They dust the stairs... they keep themselves to themselves... (mostly) and I respect their choice to do what they do.
"Hoor" is very much an affectionate term. And to be quite honest... they're sort of entertaining in a Monty Python/Terry Pratchett kind of way.
And I have to admit... it would be a lot easier to consider selling my flat if they weren't two floors down... but they're just so DAMNED entertaining! Always a good conversation topic in the pub... and they never fail to have a curtain-twitching show on outside in the street at least once a month...
So hopefully I can drag myself away from the window for long enough to get to the computer... Either that or due to sods law they'll move out tomorrow. Either way... I'll be happy ;)
P.
my first blog!
I've thought of doing this from the first time I heard of blogs...
What should blogs be? Angsty obviously... I guess I could do angst...
Cutting edge? Hmmm. I can do political issues...
But the whole point of that is not to be a miserable 16 year old and whine about life... but to make a note of the activities of my NEIGHBOURS.
Yes. OHHHH how I would LOVE to have a nice little Mrs Marple character next door... Yes! I could do her shopping for her... hear about her hip... Look after her cat whilst on holiday?
But no. My neighbours are Hoors. Excuse my pronounciation (I'm Scottish)... Whores. Ladies of the night. Prostitutes...
Bawds... Call girls... Courtesans... Fallen Women... Filles de Joie... Harlots... Hookers... Hustlers... Loose Women... Molls... Pros... Streetwalkers... Strumpets... Tarts... Trollops... Women on the game... Women employed by the oldest profession... WOMEN OF NEGOTIABLE AFFECTION!!!
Which can be entertaining. Which is mainly the point of my blog.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not against them. I'm all for them! They dust the stairs... they keep themselves to themselves... (mostly) and I respect their choice to do what they do.
"Hoor" is very much an affectionate term. And to be quite honest... they're sort of entertaining in a Monty Python/Terry Pratchett kind of way.
And I have to admit... it would be a lot easier to consider selling my flat if they weren't two floors down... but they're just so DAMNED entertaining! Always a good conversation topic in the pub... and they never fail to have a curtain-twitching show on outside in the street at least once a month...
So hopefully I can drag myself away from the window for long enough to get to the computer... Either that or due to sods law they'll move out tomorrow. Either way... I'll be happy ;)
P.
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