(Click on headings to be re-directed to website)
Genevieve.
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Young Foundation PDF (Neighbourliness + Empowerment = Wellbeing
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Action for Happiness
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NZ HERALD: How well do you know your neighbour article
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Happy City
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People United
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People United
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10 Reasons You Should Know Your Neighbours
by Kimberly McLeod
We recently moved to a new neighbourhood where we know pretty much everyone on the street. But, it hasn’t always been this way. The last house we lived in, we only knew one of our next-door neighbours. After they moved, we didn’t get to know the new family that moved in. I’m sad to say I don’t even remember their names.
After thinking a bit about the differences between the two, I came up with some convincing reasons on why you should get to know your neighbours, too.
1. You can borrow sugar. Or milk. Or whatever it is you just ran out of that prevents you from making Kraft Dinner. If you’ve ever been in this predicament before then you know you’ve spent at least five minutes contemplating whether you can substitute water instead of milk. And no, it doesn’t taste the same with water.
2. They keep you in the know. On the serious side, they will let you know if there’s been a rash of car break-ins. You know because suburban teenagers are jacking things like your kids’ Little Mermaid DVD and your spare change. On the not-so-serious side, they can let you know the scoop on Jackie’s MIA husband and her new ‘friend’. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. (I’m not, of course…)
3. You’ll have easy access to babysitters. Finding a reliable babysitter is impossible in high demand these days. Finding a good babysitter that lives in your neighbourhood? Priceless. Now you can finally drag your husband to see that new Channing Tatum movie… Life. Is. Good.
4. You can finally get the house to yourself. That neighbour that’s always sitting in his garage having a beer? He can shoot the shit with your husband for a good hour talking football and fantasy leagues. Lots of neighbors also means lots of neighbor kids. And neighbour kids can have your kids over to play. The tough part? Deciding whether to take a bath, or watch TV during that solitary hour. Or take a nap. Yes, nap wins.
5. You’ll get invited to parties. Even though you don’t need any more Tupperware you’ll still buy something because everyone else is drooling over the new lunch packs. Ok, maybe you just feel obligated to buy something. Dammit. But at least there’s wine, snacks, and no kids.
6. You can actually say “Hello Bob!” when you’re walking down the street. Instead of that awkward “Hi” and then having to look away as quickly as you can and while you pretend to say something to your kid.
7. You can ask for help moving shit. Did your new mission to lose the baby weight spur an impulse purchase of a treadmill? But you didn’t quite think through how you’d get that monster-of-a-beast machine into your basement, did you? No worries, just round up 3 of the neighbour guys to help and volunteer your husband to assist with their basement remodel.
8. You can pool your fireworks together. Enjoying fireworks as a neighbourhood is really smart. For one, fireworks are ridiculously expensive. I’ve never spent more money on anything else that only lasts for several minutes. And two, listening to other peoples’ fireworks when the kids are asleep is like listening to scratching nails on a chalkboard.
9. They’ll take care of business. Like shovel the snow. or mow your side of the lawn so it’s even. So next time your husband is being lazy and doesn’t want to cut the grass, at least half of the front lawn will be done.
10. They’ll bring you food. You know, like when you just popped out a baby. You’ll cry tears of joy when a neighbour drops off homemade mac and cheese two days after you have given birth.
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Neighbours Day
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Do You Know Your Neighbours? 10 Reasons To Meet Them
Do you know your Neighbours? No? Well perhaps it is time for you to go and meet them, who knows what you are missing out on. Knowing your neighbours has plenty of benefits and in this post I will detail a few of them as well as a couple of ways you can introduce yourself. Who knows, they might turn out to be great people with plenty of similar interests who you end up becoming friends with.
Growing up at my parents house we used to know all the neighbours. It meant that as a kid my brothers and I had a heap of fun playing backyard sports and doing various other activities with all of the other neighbourhood children. The environment that I grew up in, where all the neighbours knew each other seemed like something everyone did, it was what I perceived as being “normal”.
After buying my own home, I soon realised that I too would need to meet my new neighbours, but because I was building a house we had no neighbours to meet.
One afternoon I was taking a look at the construction work going on at our property, and I spotted a woman walking through the house that was also being built next door. She seemed to be doing the same thing I was doing and so I assumed she must be the owner. As our houses had no walls at this point in time it was easy to see one another and so I called out to her and asked if it was her house that she was building.
It turns out that she was the owner and we ended up becoming pretty good neighbours and friends. When we got to the stage of doing the fencing for our property we also got the opportunity to meet our other neighbours as I wanted to halves in the cost of the fence with them. We didn’t become friends with the other neighbours, but we knew their names and engaged in light conversation with them from time to time.
Over the last few months many of our neighbours had changed and so we found ourselves not really knowing many people in our neighbourhood again. To combat this we decided to go around and invite each neighbour over for a barbecue and a few drinks as a sort of get to know your neighbours day. Seeing as we knew the most people in the street and had been there the longest we figured it would be a good idea to regrow our neighbourhood group.
In total we had 5 neighbours/families over and everyone seemed to have a good time with our lunch time party continuing past dinner and into the night. The total cost to me was about $150, but knowing my neighbours may end up saving me far more than that one day, so I look at is almost as an investment decision.
10 Benefits of Knowing Your Neighbours
There are plenty of reasons why you should know your neighbours and here are just a few that I can think of:- They can lookout for your property against burglars
- They can collect your mail if you are going to be away on holidays
- If you have pets and need to go away, some neighbours will offer to look after them for you
- They can help you move heavy objects
- They might have tools that you can borrow
- They can provide transportation or help you out in an emergency situation
- Many neighbours like looking after babies and can be great free baby sitters
- If you are running low on milk and the shops are shut you might be able to borrow some
- Friday & Saturday nights can be a lot more fun having neighbours around to have drinks with
- If you and your neighbours have school aged kids then the kids will probably get along and not be
as likely to sit inside at home on afternoons and weekends
Patrick Barkham and Pauline Platten, Norwich
I moved from a London flat to a terrace in Norwich two years ago and went from being on nodding terms with two neighbours to chatting over the fence with Peter and Beryl and Joanna and Ivo, as well as Eric, my old school teacher, Catherine and Sebastian, Pat the Aussie electrician, Dave the lovely plumber, the cashier from the supermarket and an elderly lady called Jackie.
I feel pretty smug about the fact that I am a chatty man with the perfect chat accessory: twins. But then I knock on the door of Pauline Platten, a retiree who lives opposite whom I had never talked to before, despite seeing her walking her dogs. Pauline looks a little startled: she doesn't even recognise me. And after five minutes in her warm living room, I realise I am virtually the only person Pauline doesn't know. Am I actually the iciest man on Winter Road?
Pauline has lived on the street ever since she got married, in 1963. On the 50th anniversary of her arrival, she held an "open day" and dropped notes around to everyone: 32 people popped in. I didn't, however, and have no memory of that note through the door.
Now thinking guiltily about my lack of integration into the street (it is because I'm a hard-pressed new dad, I claim to myself), I ask if it is less neighbourly than it used to be. "It's more friendly," says Pauline. "It's like a little village. I could go to any house on this road and they would help me with what I wanted."
When she had her two children, there were other young families around on Winter Road, but then it went for years without any babies. Now, says Pauline, there's loads again, and she can name most of them. And residents' cats.
"There's the lady with the twins," she says.
"She's my, er, wife-um-partner," I stumble.
Pauline and I chat for 45 minutes and Winter Road quickly takes on a whole new depth and complexity, from the former resident who was an Auschwitz orphan to thrilling insights I can't possibly repeat.
Living on one of Britain's friendliest streets is, I conclude, a terrible burden if you don't pass the sociability test but, as Catherine down the road later points out, neighbourliness can break out anywhere: when she lived in Tottenham she received Christmas cards from everyone on her street in her first year.
So it's not where you are; it's who you are.
"I always seem to make friends," says Pauline. "But I think you have to be …"
I nod. Chatty.
Hugh Muir and Graham Le Blond, east London
Nice connecting with neighbours. Nice but not always easy. My first approach, to a ruddy-faced man of years and his neighbour on her doorstep didn't go well. "Don't look now," he whispered too loudly. "There's a bloke watching us." They glared until I shuffled away.
Rows of suburban doors, with who knows who behind them, but the choice seemed obvious once I saw the van parked in Graham Le Blond's driveway. Fox-A-Gon, specialists in "non-lethal fox management". There's a hot potato, especially in our shared bit of park-blessed east London. There's a neighbour worth knowing, I thought. He was.
He had been there all the time, in his present house 10 years and a house around the corner for the preceding decade, but neither of us had registered the other. I clocked his van when it appeared three years ago. He recognised my car: for cars register and stay with him. For years he was a vehicle accident investigator.
But he had and has a passion for animals – his own four dogs – and for foxes. And after one day spent with a friend working with injured foxes, Graham, 54, changed direction. Everyone complains about foxes; providing both a vocation and an opportunity. "We decided there were a lot of people giving advice, and very few dealing with people's problems."
The foxes are never harmed, he says: merely moved and deterred from the site of nuisance. And though occasionally a neighbour seeks reassurance about what he does, Graham, who lives with his wife – a teacher – has a wide group of friends in the surrounding houses. Neighbourliness is important, he says. "The dogs really do that for you. People come to know each other because they walk their dogs in the park at the same time. It's an easy way to know people." And yet, it's a bar set high. We cat owners don't stand a chance.
Nosheen Iqbal and Mrs G, Stamford Hill, north London
"I've been here longer than you've been born." Mrs G ("I don't want my name printed, please"), at No 40 across the road, tells me she bought her Victorian house in Stamford Hill 46 years ago for £4,000 (it's worth nearer £800,000 now). We've been neighbours for six years. She says she knows most of the neighbours on her side of the street. She is hazier about those on mine (where the houses are three-storey, converted into flats and bedsits), apart from all the sex workers. "Upstairs and downstairs, next door to you," she points. "She was crying and then her pimp was crying. All the time
We live in the largest ultra-Orthodox Jewish community in Europe. "I'm quite reserved," she insists, but she takes two phonecalls and a visitor comes to the door as we talk in her kitchen, The Archers playing and a copy of the Telegraph on the breakfast table.
Stamford Hill, she says, is not the prettiest place she has lived – she moved here from Belgium to get married – but she will never leave. "My sister lives in Vienna next to the Opera House. Imagine. It's like living in the West End. Here, the youngsters are moving to Manchester these days," she explains. "Everyone is looking to build a community where housing is cheaper. One has been talking about it for 25 years but it costs a lot of money." She sighs. "It's not the same calibre of people who live here any more." I try to reassure her that the area is, by far, still the safest place I've lived in London. "My mother has passed away now, but the last time I took her for a walk along the River Lea, she was abused racially and took it very badly. She was a concentration camp survivor and it upset her and it upset me."
She asks about my being Muslim. I ask nosy questions about Orthodox traditions. No, she doesn't have a TV; yes, she uses the internet, and she would go to town more but her arthritis plays up these days. We both love theatre. "Officially, loads of people would not go, I do. It depends. I wouldn't go to a strip club or anything like that."
Paula Cocozza and Sandra, Hackney, east London
Sandra lives three doors down. I know her name but have never called her by it. I see her pass my house several times a day. Usually she has her head down, as if there's something heavy in it.
I am in two minds about what to say if she opens the door. When I get to the house, I am in two minds about which door to knock at: there are two. The one I choose has two doorbells. I worry Sandra doesn't want to be found. The bell that rings falls off the wall.
Sandra comes. "Hi Sandra, it's me. Paula down the road." Said aloud, this sounds deeply fraudulent. "I want to ask you a favour …"
"Course," she says. The door shuts behind us. We sit down at the table looking over the garden and she tells me the names of other neighbours she knows, finishing with: "The people next door. They moved in 30-plus years ago, the same time as us."
What are they called? She shakes her head. You don't know a first name? "Never remember their name." Did she know people better before? "Not really," she says. Her voice oscillates between a croak and a whisper.
Upstairs people are sleeping – a niece, the niece's six-month-old baby, and Sandra's elderly mum. "I'm her full-time carer," she says. So where is she going when she passes my window? "The corner shop. Mehmet's. I'm friendly with the people in the shop." The shuttle walks are a break from "looking after my mum". How is she? "It's never going to change," she says. When her mother dies the council will reallocate the house. "I will lose it."
She shows me out, through the door that is not the one I called at. "Strangers use the other one," she says. I want to pop to the corner shop for a gift to say thanks for her time but she says, "You dare!" So I tell her to call on me sometime. I don't think she will.
Leo Benedictus and Tim and Sharon, Brighton
If you want to find the friendliest streets in Britain go to the just finished ones, such as mine in Brighton. Here, like me, all my neighbours are new arrivals, which means no one feels like the outsider or needs to worry that they have replaced somebody's friends. We have identical houses too, so when one of us grapples with their boiler, they grapple for us all.
The people round the back, though. They have been here for years, living through all the builders' noise and dust and swearing so that a bunch of newcomers could steal their sunlight and stare into their gardens. Has the silence across the fence since we arrived been the relaxed kind while we settle in, or tension?
The question has its answer before I'm through the door. Tim and Sharon are genuinely friendly, and when I explain why I've come they are happy to talk. It turns out they are Guardian-readers, which probably helps. (Although they have their doubts about some editing decisions, which I will be passing on.)
"It was a better view, really," Sharon says about the patch of ground my street was built on. "The sun used to come in through that window," Tim reminisces. But they are pulling my leg. In an isolated incident, I discover that our builders did tip a load of earth through the gap between our gardens. "I had to shout at them, but they were OK," Tim says.
It turns out that he is a recruitment consultant and works from home, as I do, and Sharon runs a hairdressing salon that they own together. Ironically, it was the building of my street that brought them into closer contact with many of their neighbours, but they have been good friends with the people on either side since they arrived eight years ago. "The minute we moved in, Liz next door came through with a chocolate cake," Sharon says.
They also have children – Ava, 10, and Lucian, six – who eventually slink downstairs to see what's going on. Both children go to the school where my oldest has just started, and years ago Ava even went to the nursery where my youngest still is. As a result, it soon becomes clear that we already have have many little connections among people in the area.
The strangest coincidence of all comes only afterwards, however, by text. Tim, Sharon, Ava and Lucian, it turns out, all share my wife's unusual surname. In a distant way, the sunlight we have stolen may once have belonged to cousins. Next time I see them I'll get to the bottom of it. To show how relaxed things are between us, I might even stop writing down everything they say.
Stuart Heritage and Artur, Forest Hill, south-east London
My block of flats is old and ratty. The corridors are concrete so if someone coughs on the top floor, the sound rattles and echoes and builds into a full-blown thunderstorm by the time it gets to me. It's not great for sleeping. And, by a weird architectural quirk, I can hear my downstairs neighbour whenever I take a bath. Since I moved in, I've heard him eat and wash and get his kids ready for school. I've heard him argue with his wife. He has probably heard me argue with my girlfriend. It might be the most intimate relationship I've ever had with someone I don't actually know.
We have spoken once before, when everyone's toilets suddenly stopped working. It was the most cursory of "I'm refilling my cistern with a watering can/Oh, you're using a bucket/I miss plumbing" exchanges. Other than that, he was a stranger.
In retrospect, this was silly. Now that I've spoken to him for this article, I realise what a fascinating man I've been living above. His name is Artur, he is in his early 40s, and he has lived a life. He was born in Poland, but spent a year in an East German refugee camp. He moved to Colorado, where he worked as a welder, a salesman and a tram driver before he became bankrupt and circuitously ended up in Forest Hill. He is now a baker at my local supermarket. I've been his biggest fan for years, and didn't even know it.
I was supposed to talk to Artur for 10 minutes, but we chatted for a full hour. I saw pictures of his family, played with his dogs and watched him demonstrate how his wife does sit-ups. I think I'm helping his son with his English exams soon. Artur is a genuinely lovely, thoughtful man and I've missed out by not introducing myself earlier. I should introduce myself to all my neighbours. Apart from the guy above me who listens to full-volume Green Day all the time, obviously. I'm not an idiot.
Michele Hanson and Martin and Florence, north London
It is 10.30am and I've just visited the neighbours two doors up, whom I don't know, but do wave at now and again. I felt like a tabloid doorstepper, barging in rudely without an invitation, but did I get a frosty reception? No. They were charming. Would I like to come in? Have a tea or coffee? Yes, please. How welcoming. I think I'd be rather more crabby if someone turned up unannounced. And what a lovely, immaculate house and kitchen they have. I'm rather envious. And worried. What if we do become best friends? Will I dare invite them back to my slum?
But we have other things in common. We've spotted the same pair of burglars, sneaking round gardens, we know all about the local schools, we know which neighbours are not so chummy, we've all lived round here for decades, Martin (yes, I know their names now) lived in the road I used to live in from when he was three, went to my daughter's school and knows our old neighbours. His mother still lives round the corner. Florence is French, they have a 10-year-old daughter. We have a jolly half-hour chat.
So that makes two more darling neighbours whom I know, as well as the ones on both sides of me, above me, behind me, across the road, round the corner and in the next road, where I used to live. Which is reassuring, because as I grow older and more decrepit, I like to think that, one day, when I drag myself to the front door with a broken limb or the first signs of stroke, heart attack or some other ghastly ailment, and throw myself, with my remaining strength, across the doorstep, one of the neighbours will rescue rather than rob me. Fingers crossed.
Laura Barton, central London
I grew up in a village, on the edge of a small town, where every stitch of your life seemed to be known about, including the time when you were 16 and you got really drunk on Guinness and your best friend had to carry you home and your Mum called you a prat, right there on the street, in a voice so loud the words bounced off the houses. They knew about that.
After 10 years living in Hackney, east London, I moved to Bloomsbury 18 months ago. I thought that living so close to the centre of town might make life more isolated, but actually my street feels like a village of sorts – particularly as, for a time, two of my good friends lived across the street.
But until this week I was not particularly familiar with my nearest neighbours, Dan and Jessica. I live in a converted block of five flats, and although I knew their names – we share a hallway and a letterbox, and would run into one another on the stairs – we were never more than cordial.
When I knock on their door Dan invites me in and introduces me to their cat, Yin. It's strange to think of our respective black-and-white cats living next door to one another, unknowing.
Dan is 38 and an artist who works as an arts administration manager. His partner Jess, 32, works as a visual effects producer. They have lived here since 2006, after moving to London from Stafford. They love the location, mainly because they can go to gigs easily. Tonight it's Sebadoh at the Scala, King's Cross. Then it's Parquet Courts at Village Underground. Recently it was the launch of Sam Knee's book about UK indie music in the 1980s, A Scene in Between, at Rough Trade East. "That's the best thing about London," Dan tells me. "It's about being able to come here and meet your heroes." He recalls meeting Dennis Hopper, Pavement, Laetitia Sadler from Stereolab, and Stephen Pastel, and for the first time I notice that Dan's hair is cut into a near-replica of Stephen Pastel's. "I've been a fan for ages," he explains. "I walked into a barber's with a picture of Stephen Pastel and said: 'Do my hair like that.'"
I am pleased now – not only do we share a love of cats, we also have similar musical tastes. I bore Dan with my story of running into the Pastels in a service station coming back from the Bowlie Weekender at Camber Sands in 1999, and he is polite enough to look quite interested.
The next day I see him in the hall. He is wearing a new Sebadoh shirt and stops to tell me about the previous evening's gig and show me a picture of him with the band. And in that moment I see a delight, suddenly, in knowing the stitches of your neighbours' lives, in the way that in this vast city, people can still be quietly sewn together.
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How Well Do You Know Your Neighbours
I moved from a London flat to a terrace in Norwich two years ago and went from being on nodding terms with two neighbours to chatting over the fence with Peter and Beryl and Joanna and Ivo, as well as Eric, my old school teacher, Catherine and Sebastian, Pat the Aussie electrician, Dave the lovely plumber, the cashier from the supermarket and an elderly lady called Jackie.
I feel pretty smug about the fact that I am a chatty man with the perfect chat accessory: twins. But then I knock on the door of Pauline Platten, a retiree who lives opposite whom I had never talked to before, despite seeing her walking her dogs. Pauline looks a little startled: she doesn't even recognise me. And after five minutes in her warm living room, I realise I am virtually the only person Pauline doesn't know. Am I actually the iciest man on Winter Road?
Pauline has lived on the street ever since she got married, in 1963. On the 50th anniversary of her arrival, she held an "open day" and dropped notes around to everyone: 32 people popped in. I didn't, however, and have no memory of that note through the door.
Now thinking guiltily about my lack of integration into the street (it is because I'm a hard-pressed new dad, I claim to myself), I ask if it is less neighbourly than it used to be. "It's more friendly," says Pauline. "It's like a little village. I could go to any house on this road and they would help me with what I wanted."
When she had her two children, there were other young families around on Winter Road, but then it went for years without any babies. Now, says Pauline, there's loads again, and she can name most of them. And residents' cats.
"There's the lady with the twins," she says.
"She's my, er, wife-um-partner," I stumble.
Pauline and I chat for 45 minutes and Winter Road quickly takes on a whole new depth and complexity, from the former resident who was an Auschwitz orphan to thrilling insights I can't possibly repeat.
Living on one of Britain's friendliest streets is, I conclude, a terrible burden if you don't pass the sociability test but, as Catherine down the road later points out, neighbourliness can break out anywhere: when she lived in Tottenham she received Christmas cards from everyone on her street in her first year.
So it's not where you are; it's who you are.
"I always seem to make friends," says Pauline. "But I think you have to be …"
I nod. Chatty.
Hugh Muir and Graham Le Blond, east London
Nice connecting with neighbours. Nice but not always easy. My first approach, to a ruddy-faced man of years and his neighbour on her doorstep didn't go well. "Don't look now," he whispered too loudly. "There's a bloke watching us." They glared until I shuffled away.
Rows of suburban doors, with who knows who behind them, but the choice seemed obvious once I saw the van parked in Graham Le Blond's driveway. Fox-A-Gon, specialists in "non-lethal fox management". There's a hot potato, especially in our shared bit of park-blessed east London. There's a neighbour worth knowing, I thought. He was.
He had been there all the time, in his present house 10 years and a house around the corner for the preceding decade, but neither of us had registered the other. I clocked his van when it appeared three years ago. He recognised my car: for cars register and stay with him. For years he was a vehicle accident investigator.
But he had and has a passion for animals – his own four dogs – and for foxes. And after one day spent with a friend working with injured foxes, Graham, 54, changed direction. Everyone complains about foxes; providing both a vocation and an opportunity. "We decided there were a lot of people giving advice, and very few dealing with people's problems."
The foxes are never harmed, he says: merely moved and deterred from the site of nuisance. And though occasionally a neighbour seeks reassurance about what he does, Graham, who lives with his wife – a teacher – has a wide group of friends in the surrounding houses. Neighbourliness is important, he says. "The dogs really do that for you. People come to know each other because they walk their dogs in the park at the same time. It's an easy way to know people." And yet, it's a bar set high. We cat owners don't stand a chance.
Nosheen Iqbal and Mrs G, Stamford Hill, north London
"I've been here longer than you've been born." Mrs G ("I don't want my name printed, please"), at No 40 across the road, tells me she bought her Victorian house in Stamford Hill 46 years ago for £4,000 (it's worth nearer £800,000 now). We've been neighbours for six years. She says she knows most of the neighbours on her side of the street. She is hazier about those on mine (where the houses are three-storey, converted into flats and bedsits), apart from all the sex workers. "Upstairs and downstairs, next door to you," she points. "She was crying and then her pimp was crying. All the time
We live in the largest ultra-Orthodox Jewish community in Europe. "I'm quite reserved," she insists, but she takes two phonecalls and a visitor comes to the door as we talk in her kitchen, The Archers playing and a copy of the Telegraph on the breakfast table.
Stamford Hill, she says, is not the prettiest place she has lived – she moved here from Belgium to get married – but she will never leave. "My sister lives in Vienna next to the Opera House. Imagine. It's like living in the West End. Here, the youngsters are moving to Manchester these days," she explains. "Everyone is looking to build a community where housing is cheaper. One has been talking about it for 25 years but it costs a lot of money." She sighs. "It's not the same calibre of people who live here any more." I try to reassure her that the area is, by far, still the safest place I've lived in London. "My mother has passed away now, but the last time I took her for a walk along the River Lea, she was abused racially and took it very badly. She was a concentration camp survivor and it upset her and it upset me."
She asks about my being Muslim. I ask nosy questions about Orthodox traditions. No, she doesn't have a TV; yes, she uses the internet, and she would go to town more but her arthritis plays up these days. We both love theatre. "Officially, loads of people would not go, I do. It depends. I wouldn't go to a strip club or anything like that."
Paula Cocozza and Sandra, Hackney, east London
Sandra lives three doors down. I know her name but have never called her by it. I see her pass my house several times a day. Usually she has her head down, as if there's something heavy in it.
I am in two minds about what to say if she opens the door. When I get to the house, I am in two minds about which door to knock at: there are two. The one I choose has two doorbells. I worry Sandra doesn't want to be found. The bell that rings falls off the wall.
Sandra comes. "Hi Sandra, it's me. Paula down the road." Said aloud, this sounds deeply fraudulent. "I want to ask you a favour …"
"Course," she says. The door shuts behind us. We sit down at the table looking over the garden and she tells me the names of other neighbours she knows, finishing with: "The people next door. They moved in 30-plus years ago, the same time as us."
What are they called? She shakes her head. You don't know a first name? "Never remember their name." Did she know people better before? "Not really," she says. Her voice oscillates between a croak and a whisper.
Upstairs people are sleeping – a niece, the niece's six-month-old baby, and Sandra's elderly mum. "I'm her full-time carer," she says. So where is she going when she passes my window? "The corner shop. Mehmet's. I'm friendly with the people in the shop." The shuttle walks are a break from "looking after my mum". How is she? "It's never going to change," she says. When her mother dies the council will reallocate the house. "I will lose it."
She shows me out, through the door that is not the one I called at. "Strangers use the other one," she says. I want to pop to the corner shop for a gift to say thanks for her time but she says, "You dare!" So I tell her to call on me sometime. I don't think she will.
Leo Benedictus and Tim and Sharon, Brighton
If you want to find the friendliest streets in Britain go to the just finished ones, such as mine in Brighton. Here, like me, all my neighbours are new arrivals, which means no one feels like the outsider or needs to worry that they have replaced somebody's friends. We have identical houses too, so when one of us grapples with their boiler, they grapple for us all.
The people round the back, though. They have been here for years, living through all the builders' noise and dust and swearing so that a bunch of newcomers could steal their sunlight and stare into their gardens. Has the silence across the fence since we arrived been the relaxed kind while we settle in, or tension?
The question has its answer before I'm through the door. Tim and Sharon are genuinely friendly, and when I explain why I've come they are happy to talk. It turns out they are Guardian-readers, which probably helps. (Although they have their doubts about some editing decisions, which I will be passing on.)
"It was a better view, really," Sharon says about the patch of ground my street was built on. "The sun used to come in through that window," Tim reminisces. But they are pulling my leg. In an isolated incident, I discover that our builders did tip a load of earth through the gap between our gardens. "I had to shout at them, but they were OK," Tim says.
It turns out that he is a recruitment consultant and works from home, as I do, and Sharon runs a hairdressing salon that they own together. Ironically, it was the building of my street that brought them into closer contact with many of their neighbours, but they have been good friends with the people on either side since they arrived eight years ago. "The minute we moved in, Liz next door came through with a chocolate cake," Sharon says.
They also have children – Ava, 10, and Lucian, six – who eventually slink downstairs to see what's going on. Both children go to the school where my oldest has just started, and years ago Ava even went to the nursery where my youngest still is. As a result, it soon becomes clear that we already have have many little connections among people in the area.
The strangest coincidence of all comes only afterwards, however, by text. Tim, Sharon, Ava and Lucian, it turns out, all share my wife's unusual surname. In a distant way, the sunlight we have stolen may once have belonged to cousins. Next time I see them I'll get to the bottom of it. To show how relaxed things are between us, I might even stop writing down everything they say.
Stuart Heritage and Artur, Forest Hill, south-east London
My block of flats is old and ratty. The corridors are concrete so if someone coughs on the top floor, the sound rattles and echoes and builds into a full-blown thunderstorm by the time it gets to me. It's not great for sleeping. And, by a weird architectural quirk, I can hear my downstairs neighbour whenever I take a bath. Since I moved in, I've heard him eat and wash and get his kids ready for school. I've heard him argue with his wife. He has probably heard me argue with my girlfriend. It might be the most intimate relationship I've ever had with someone I don't actually know.
We have spoken once before, when everyone's toilets suddenly stopped working. It was the most cursory of "I'm refilling my cistern with a watering can/Oh, you're using a bucket/I miss plumbing" exchanges. Other than that, he was a stranger.
In retrospect, this was silly. Now that I've spoken to him for this article, I realise what a fascinating man I've been living above. His name is Artur, he is in his early 40s, and he has lived a life. He was born in Poland, but spent a year in an East German refugee camp. He moved to Colorado, where he worked as a welder, a salesman and a tram driver before he became bankrupt and circuitously ended up in Forest Hill. He is now a baker at my local supermarket. I've been his biggest fan for years, and didn't even know it.
I was supposed to talk to Artur for 10 minutes, but we chatted for a full hour. I saw pictures of his family, played with his dogs and watched him demonstrate how his wife does sit-ups. I think I'm helping his son with his English exams soon. Artur is a genuinely lovely, thoughtful man and I've missed out by not introducing myself earlier. I should introduce myself to all my neighbours. Apart from the guy above me who listens to full-volume Green Day all the time, obviously. I'm not an idiot.
Michele Hanson and Martin and Florence, north London
It is 10.30am and I've just visited the neighbours two doors up, whom I don't know, but do wave at now and again. I felt like a tabloid doorstepper, barging in rudely without an invitation, but did I get a frosty reception? No. They were charming. Would I like to come in? Have a tea or coffee? Yes, please. How welcoming. I think I'd be rather more crabby if someone turned up unannounced. And what a lovely, immaculate house and kitchen they have. I'm rather envious. And worried. What if we do become best friends? Will I dare invite them back to my slum?
But we have other things in common. We've spotted the same pair of burglars, sneaking round gardens, we know all about the local schools, we know which neighbours are not so chummy, we've all lived round here for decades, Martin (yes, I know their names now) lived in the road I used to live in from when he was three, went to my daughter's school and knows our old neighbours. His mother still lives round the corner. Florence is French, they have a 10-year-old daughter. We have a jolly half-hour chat.
So that makes two more darling neighbours whom I know, as well as the ones on both sides of me, above me, behind me, across the road, round the corner and in the next road, where I used to live. Which is reassuring, because as I grow older and more decrepit, I like to think that, one day, when I drag myself to the front door with a broken limb or the first signs of stroke, heart attack or some other ghastly ailment, and throw myself, with my remaining strength, across the doorstep, one of the neighbours will rescue rather than rob me. Fingers crossed.
Laura Barton, central London
I grew up in a village, on the edge of a small town, where every stitch of your life seemed to be known about, including the time when you were 16 and you got really drunk on Guinness and your best friend had to carry you home and your Mum called you a prat, right there on the street, in a voice so loud the words bounced off the houses. They knew about that.
After 10 years living in Hackney, east London, I moved to Bloomsbury 18 months ago. I thought that living so close to the centre of town might make life more isolated, but actually my street feels like a village of sorts – particularly as, for a time, two of my good friends lived across the street.
But until this week I was not particularly familiar with my nearest neighbours, Dan and Jessica. I live in a converted block of five flats, and although I knew their names – we share a hallway and a letterbox, and would run into one another on the stairs – we were never more than cordial.
When I knock on their door Dan invites me in and introduces me to their cat, Yin. It's strange to think of our respective black-and-white cats living next door to one another, unknowing.
Dan is 38 and an artist who works as an arts administration manager. His partner Jess, 32, works as a visual effects producer. They have lived here since 2006, after moving to London from Stafford. They love the location, mainly because they can go to gigs easily. Tonight it's Sebadoh at the Scala, King's Cross. Then it's Parquet Courts at Village Underground. Recently it was the launch of Sam Knee's book about UK indie music in the 1980s, A Scene in Between, at Rough Trade East. "That's the best thing about London," Dan tells me. "It's about being able to come here and meet your heroes." He recalls meeting Dennis Hopper, Pavement, Laetitia Sadler from Stereolab, and Stephen Pastel, and for the first time I notice that Dan's hair is cut into a near-replica of Stephen Pastel's. "I've been a fan for ages," he explains. "I walked into a barber's with a picture of Stephen Pastel and said: 'Do my hair like that.'"
I am pleased now – not only do we share a love of cats, we also have similar musical tastes. I bore Dan with my story of running into the Pastels in a service station coming back from the Bowlie Weekender at Camber Sands in 1999, and he is polite enough to look quite interested.
The next day I see him in the hall. He is wearing a new Sebadoh shirt and stops to tell me about the previous evening's gig and show me a picture of him with the band. And in that moment I see a delight, suddenly, in knowing the stitches of your neighbours' lives, in the way that in this vast city, people can still be quietly sewn together.
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The Fan Charity
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Local Level
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Street Party
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How To Be A Good Neighbour
Being on bad terms with your neighbour can make your life frustrating, day after day. But taking the time to establish good terms with your neighbours has numerous benefits. The community will be friendlier, the neighbourhood safer, and the area a nicer and more comfortable place to live.- Introduce yourself. Whether you're new in the neighbourhood or new residents have just moved in on your block, introduce yourself. Say hello, offer a welcoming gift (the classic homemade pie never fails) and share or ask about the local area: "Where's the nearest pizzeria?" or "The garbage truck comes by on Tuesdays and Fridays, usually around 10 in the morning, but sometimes he sneaks in at 8."
- Consider your neighbours' lifestyle. Get to know your neighbours--what they do for a living, what their schedules might be like, and so on. Sometimes, you can remedy problems before they even start; for example, if they work nights, quiet mornings will be important for them. If they have young children, quiet evenings will be very important to them. Similarly, give them information that'll help them be more considerate of your lifestyle. If you do a lot of yard work, or if your teenage son plays the drums, let them know in advance and mention that if it's getting too loud, they shouldn't hesitate to let you know.
- Be aware of shared walls. If you're in a terrace, condominium, semi-detached house or any structure where you and your neighbours share adjacent living spaces, position noisy household appliances such as washing machines and tumble dryers - even TVs and speakers - away from partition walls. If you live above someone, consider putting linoleum or rubber matting underneath your appliances to deaden or muffle the noise, and remember that someone downstairs can hear you walking around (so minimise how often you wear high heels indoors, for example).
- Control your dog. Keep your dog on a leash if it has a habit of running rampant on your neighbours' lawns, especially if they have a cat or a dog of their own, and make sure to clean up after it. If you have a particularly noisy dog, this may also become a source of contention for your neighbour. Put yourself in their shoes and imagine how upset you'd be if you or perhaps your newborn was woken from a much-needed nap by the sudden yapping of a nearby dog. If you have problems controlling your dog's barking or whining, consider seeking advice from your local vet or a local animal organisation.
- Practice parking etiquette. When you park your vehicle, be sure not to block anyone's access, or make them have to pull out of a very tight spot. Don't over-rev the engine of your car or motorcycle early in the morning or late at night. Park in front of your home, not theirs. Avoid slamming your doors or shining your headlights into your neighbour's windows late at night.
- Alert your neighbour to parties. If you're planning a party, be sure to give your neighbours plenty of warning, letting them know when it's going to start and how long you expect it to go on. Leave them a telephone number to contact if they need to ask you to turn it down. If you get on well with your neighbours, why not invite them too? When it comes to the party itself, stick to your agreed arrangements and ask your guests to be considerate when leaving.
- Keep your yard and garden tidy. Weed your garden regularly, because the presence of weeds in your yard is not only unsightly but can also spread to your neighbour's yard. Mow your lawn regularly and keep your flowers, trees and bushes trimmed appropriately. Put equipment away as soon as you're finished with it. Ask if your neighbour has chemical sensitivities, small children or pets before applying pesticides.
- Control your bonfire, barbecue or backyard fire. Position it where the smoke and smell will least likely blow onto your neighbour's property. As with parties, notify them in advance of your intentions, since they might have been planning to dry their clothes outside on that very same day!
- Put rubbish/garbage out on the right day. Only put your rubbish/garbage out on the day it's due for collection. If you accidentally miss the collection, bring it back onto your property immediately and try to contain it well. Garbage can attract vermin, insects, and other pests, and is also unsightly. Keep your trash area clean and debris free. Wash your garbage cans if they begin to smell.
- Communicate with your neighbour. Above all, touch base with your neighbours regularly and keep them in the loop. Remember the golden rule and if anything you are planning to do may affect them, minimise it and let them know in advance. Keep the channels of communication open by reminding them that if you're doing anything which disturbs them, they should feel comfortable approaching you about it.
- Be aware of your surroundings, as well as theirs. Even if you're not in a "neighbourhood watch" community, keep your eye on anyone you don't know acting suspiciously around your neighbour's property. When in doubt, call the police so they can quickly curtail any criminal activity.
- Invite them to contribute to your garage sales, have them over for tea, or offer to babysit their kids/pets while they're away. They will do the same for you.
- If you hear of any neighbourhood news (events, crimes, special garbage pickups, special event parking restrictions, etc.) Give them a heads up via e-mail.
- If you have a snow blower and they don't, spend that extra 60 seconds to clear their walkway. It will save them 60 minutes of work and they will be grateful.
- Be nice to your new neighbours- When someone new is moving next to you,welcome them.They will be thankful to you for a jug of lemonade.
Tips
- Send them a bouquet of flowers, invite them over for dinner, offer to babysit or petsit, something like that. They will be very happy.
- Really good neighbours watch out for each other. They ask each other for advice, and offer to help, especially on matters that impact the larger neighbourhood. They respect each others' boundaries but are quick to assist in a crisis. They look for opportunities to collaborate and to socialize. Great neighbours make for great neighbourhoods, and it is well worth the effort.
- Check local regulations regarding fires in your backyard and noise levels. There are laws in most jurisdictions regulating such things.
- If you are experiencing problems with an anti-social neighbour and you are unable to resolve them yourself, then see if your local government has website information on dispute resolution. For example, look for a website with information on how to tackle anti-social behaviour in your community.
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Genevieve.
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