You GO girl!

Also...

My neighbour was about to get out of bed in the middle of the night some time last week, get dressed, and go give the 24 Hour Party People (new name for the bellowing-people downstairs) merry hell when he heard one of the ladies get out of her flat and scream at them furiously in a mancunian accent for keeping her up all night by partying!

YOU GO GIRL!!! (does the Ricky Lake dance)

I love the Hoors :)

Sleeping like a log

It is official! I sleep like a log.

I was just talking to my neighbour just now (one of the nice ones!)... and the conversation turned (inevitably) to the tenement's "goings on."

Apparently... there was more anguished bellowing from our friendly neighbourhood druggies this week. Seemingly I have finally gotten to the stage where I'm so used to slum-livin' that I peacefully slept right through it.

oh hurrah.

Punter-Cam

I wonder what legalities would be involved in me putting a web cam focused on the front door of the tenement? Perhaps across the road in a tree... Perhaps in the hoor's buzzer itself. Imagine being able to check out the front door of a brothel in real-time as the punters buzz for the hoors!

Hmmmm...

Ello Ello Ello II - the sequel

Ok.
They came back after my last post. And it turns out they were from the drug squad. :|

I asked them if they're sure they were asking about the right neighbours as there is a brothel on the ground floor.

"Yes" nodded one. We know about them.
The other smiled sadly at me: What a lovely building you live in!

Me: *sob*

Ello Ello Ello

The police were here again today. These were proper exciting police who were looking for the ned downstairs that keeps me up late at night playing crap rave music and having people screaming and bleeding all over the stairwell.

And they were IN PLAIN CLOTHES! (which is relatively more exciting than your bobby on the beat)

They didn't know what flat he lived in and I was a bit unwilling to give any information until they showed me their ID's.
"Police eh? It'll be him downstairs"

I managed to restrain myself from saying "Unless you're after the Pimp for the ground floor?"

Quote of the month!

When I am not blogging, I play an online game (lawks! fluffs and flames to you all, dearies!)

Tonight I was telling my mum all about my blog and my web page and how I spend time working on them of an evening...

My mum: so THIS is why your phone is always online?
Me: yes!
My mum: and when you're doing this... are you on the game?
Me (not catching on): Sometimes.I'm usually talking to people... but

My mum: Um i don't mean "on the game" i mean... er... um... well...


Yaay mum! :D *big grin*

Salvation!

Usually, when I come home from work and park my car across the street and there is someone standing perusing the buzzers, I sit in my car and wait til they go in or give up and go away. Sometimes they stay there a LONG time. A Long Long time. And so I give up and stomp into the building past them.

This one time though. I wasn't in the mood for hanging around at all and when I saw two guys hanging around outside the tenement with clipboards browsing the buzzers I just decided to park my car and stomp past them. This I did. I didn't want to think of this particular Punter/Hoor/Punter/Clipboard fetish for any longer than I had to. However... They were in the way.

"Excuse me," said a beaming, smartly dressed American.
"Yes?" says I.
"We're trying to get someone to answer a buzzer in this here block of flats" says the other. Also beaming and smartly dressed.
"Yes?" says I.
"Do you live here?" asks no 1.
"Yeeessss?" says I.
"What about these other here buzzers?" asks no 2.
"Ummm. Well... This one is offshore..." I point to the buzzers, "This one is empty... This one does night shift... This one will still be at work... This one is also empty... This one is me... This guy I don't know... And this one here... ummm. I don't know about."
"Ah well!" enthuses no 1. "We're from The Church of the Latter Day Saints..."
"Ah!" says I. The beaming-ness and the smart dress... And the aura of good-ness. I can tell you all about Mormon Missionaries. In fact... That is a WHOLE different blog! Perhaps I'll get around to it later.

Anyway. I continue, politely: "I'm afraid I'm already following my own religion.... Although! I do respect what you folks do and how you're fighting the good fight and all that, I'm afraid I'm not up for converting"

"Well! Thanks for being so straight with us ma'am! It sure is appreciated, he beams"
We shake hands and I put my key towards the lock.

"Ah... before you go... is there anyone else here you think may be in need of some salvation?"

Me (pausing with a key half way into the lock): *evil soap opera grin*

Taxi

Look. Hoors. You KNOW I love you. I leant you my candle and we cut that tree down at your back window. You ARE loveable cockney hoors... but for goodness sake. PLEASE don't piss off every taxi driver in The Grey Toon?

Every time. EVERY TIME I get a taxi... they ask me about you.

Please try to be a little more discreet. If you're visiting a punter, please make sure your last punter has left before the taxi arrives? If you're making them hang around for 5-10 minutes waiting for you... please have the good grace to smile apologetically at them out of the window and assure them you're coming? And if you're getting mysterious packages delivered from the dodgier side of town? Please disguise the fact that it's Class A drugs...

Cheers.

Fairytales

My neighbours are wierd. (see below)

but last night was fun!

I woke around ummm. 3am? What did I hear? "Fee Fiii Fohhh Fummmm!"
*knock knock knock* Feeee Fiiii Fohhhhh Fummmm!"

I shook my head and fell asleep again.

5 minutes later i was awakened again. "Little Pig! Little Pig!" said a voice. "Let me in!"

"Not by the non-existant hair of my chinny chin chin" thought I. and went back to sleep.

Lunatics the lot of them.

My dad's Policeman friends

My dad knows everyone!
Lords! Ladies! Traffic Wardens!

And he knows Policemen. And Policemen know THINGS.

One day my dad parked outside my flat to walk into town. He met a friend, a policeman. This policeman remarked on what a long walk it'd be for my dad to walk all the way into town. "Not that far!" sez my dad. "I parked outside my daughter's flat"

"Oh, where's that? " sez Policeman"

"x Number, Z Street" Sez my dad

"Oh!" Sez policeman. "What does she do for a living?"

Fluffs to my dad who pointed out his daughter wasn't a Hoor and that she merely lives above a brothel ;)

Gardening Fun

Another time, my upstairs neighbour, J, and I were clearing out the back garden of the tenement.

All sorts we found!!! A wasps nest... Fishing equipment... Diving equipment (gas, flippers and all)... Ice skates. Perhaps an old resident went through a phase of looking for the right hobby... I don't know. (Excluding the wasps nest. I can't think of many hobbies that involve wasps nests).

We made an old toilet bowl into an attractive planter for poppies. We peered into the shed at the end that we reckoned The Godfather (ground floor right) was keeping horses heads in. We restrung the clothes line. We returned the supermarket trolley to Iceland (the shop not the country) and then we put our hands on our hips (in manner of I Love Lucy - we even had the spotted headscarves) and looked at The Big Tree.

I don't know what kind of tree this Big Tree is. Only that since I moved in, it has been cut right back almost every year and by September it's thriving again. Bastard thing. It's still there. Bullying everything but the dandelions.

So we got out the secateurs. We got out the saw... We cleared the window on the first floor first of all and then eventually the window of Ground Floor Left. And then the curtains on Ground Floor Left (the Hoors' flat) twitched. A face appeared. A face vanished. The back door to the tenement creaked slowly open. A Hoor appeared! Wearing what I can only describe as half of an outfit. i.e. A red jumper on top and items I can only describe as "saucy" on the bottom. Plus some scuffed stilettoes. Actually perhaps she was wearing her entire outfit for the day and had only put on the red jumper to cover up. I don't know.

"Wow! It's so LIGHT in there now! I can see SO MUCH!"

We Shuddered. We heard her buzzer go. "OOOOOH! ExCUSE me! Must be going. Thanks you two!" she grinned. We smiled and waved. "Lovely girl" we noted.

Then she reappeared at the window. Winked. And drew the curtains.

We shuddered.

Then we heard her chatting quietly to her punter.

"Shall I go in and get a radio?" I asked

A couple of licks and we're done!

PAINT. You filthy perverts... Paint.

The poor dears! Slander! I come home from the pub one night (as these blogs so often begin) and someone has sprayed something on the tennement door! "PROS" it says... And I don't think they're talking about the professional environmental consultants, dentists and lawyers living in the area.

"SLU"... another word begins... but happily I cannot read it! For the Hoors have a troglodyte! A troglodyte with an apologetic grin and a paintbrush. He smiles and shrugs nodding towards the cringing Hoor who is overseeing the graffitti removal. "Sorry 'bout this luv" she says, taking a draw on her cigarette with her bright red lips... Her red nails gripping her other elbow in a classic old-woman-with-hairnet-off-1960's-Coronation-Street pose.

I giggle drunkenly and totter off upstairs. (As so many of these blogs end...)

I Love My Neighbours!

I love my Hoor Neighbours!
They are so nice and pleasant and kind!

Only nice Hoors can be overheard giving advice to their punters on the best pubs to visit in London and which parks they should take their mothers to...

I didn't stay around to hear more, like...

Sausage Rolls

"Do you get discounts or freebies?" asks a friend.

"Discounts!? Freebies!? What in the hell would I want with discounts and freebies!?" I reply.

"Well. Next to where I work is a deli and sometimes they give me free sausage rolls..."

Me: Blank Look.

Trans-Hoor Convention

I often wondered if they just came up here for a couple of weeks and slaved away with no nights off... Like they were offshore.

But it seems that our lovely ladies DO INDEED get a night off!

My friend and I (the one who helped me lift my microwave the other month) were putting the world to rights in The Local. The Local is a really nice pub with all comfy chairs, wooden tables, a well stocked bar and a creepy old drunk at the bar who gave young ladies like myself Cadbury's Cream Eggs (that you politely took from him despite the fact they were probably injected with Ruphanol...) They also have a stupid 6ftx6ft "dancefloor" put in so that people could dance to the dodgy karaoke that turns up every saturday.

I daren't name it in case the buxom blonde behind the bar reads this and scowls at me EVEN MORE when I order my two pints of Carlsberg (only 1.75 a pint and hence why we drink there.)

So after an hour or so my friend points out the good looking chinese girl at the bar wearing octopus trousers (those unneccessary things that 12 year old goth girls and Pink wear) that is getting so much attention. "She's cute. I'm not so sure about her mate though. She has an air of 'I look so good' about her"

Sure enough. There is a leggy black woman with bleached blonde curls at the bar smiling winningly at everyone. She is so good looking and so feminine in a totally over the top kind of way she could be a man (in manner of the woman that works in Whiplash Trash on Cockburn St in Edinburgh). We look. I frown. She looks familiar. "I think it's one of my neighbours!" I say. We ponder. They sit down next to a group of 3 similar looking women (similar in a leggy-self-confident-glamorous-we're-fabulous! kind of way). Then I realise the familiarity... It's my lovely neighbours! Or at least a couple of them are.

Now we realise everyone at the table behind us (potentially including Federico from Big Brother 4 going by his tshirt, suit jacket and white trainers) is discussing them. Other tables in the pub are also looking at them. One guy is having his arm stroked by the good looking chinese girl. His girlfriend is scowling.

Thing is, our brothel usually only has a couple of girls there at one go. So perhaps they're having a hoor convention! With the Westhill Hoors or the Great Western Road Hoors!

It's good to see they get to let their hair down occasionally.

Fear

Every now and again, something bloody wierd happens and you never quite find out exactly what's been going on. Sometimes there is the odd dent in the pannelling on the stairs, sometimes there is blood on a doorframe...

Tonight I really want to go to the chinese for some chicken. But there is NO WAY I am setting foot out that door...

I was having a snooze when a door slams and some screaming begins. Well... screaming isn't really the word. Neither is shouting. It was more like roaring or bellowing... Full-on angst-ridden terrifying bellowing right outside my door. It went on for about 5 minutes while I didn't dare move and then stopped... I haven't heard anyone move since and that was half an hour ago. And more importantly, I haven't heard anyone leave the tennement. Sod the chicken.

It was like someone had Father Jack Hackett in a cage...

Decorating

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...

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...

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.

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.

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 :)

Comments?

My comments bit may potentially be working again - huzzah!

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 :(

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.

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!

"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.

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.

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???

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...

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.