Carol’s Column

Laying the foundations for loving thy neighbour

You can't choose your neighbours.

When we bought our present house, it was “a renovator's dream”. Actually, any renovator with a minimal amount of sense would have pulled it down.

With much enthusiasm and less cash, we remodelled the basic structure and turned it from a two-eyes-and-a-nose house into a two-eyes-and-a-nose house, with a smile.

We also removed the remains of the weevil-eaten hedge and constructed a wall. Not a high wall, but not a low one either. Just a good solid wall which gave us a certain amount of privacy. My husband could sit on the stoep in his baggy shorts and quaff a cold beer while I sat on the stoep in my baggy shorts and dyed my moustache without being spied upon by any eagle-eyed fleagles.

We also wanted a wall which would protect our fearsome watchdogs - a geriatric Maltese and a knock-kneed Alsatian - from things such as falling leaves, blades of grass rustling in the wind or the postman dropping letters into the postbox.

So, we built a wall upon which I planted three creepers, watered and spoke to them daily to make them creep.

Then new neighbours moved next door. And began alterations.

By its nature, building is anti-social. We'd just finished banging and grinding and sawing ourselves, so were sympathetic. Until the day I returned home, to find the creepers pathetically squashed and large lightning-shaped cracks in the wall.

It seemed that our neighbour's building contractor's lorry had reversed into our solid wall heartily with his large brick-laden truck and caused the damage. My husband, who is less volatile than I am, spoke pleasantly to our neighbour and we agreed to let the contractor repair the wall to its former state.

His first attempt resembled Stonehenge, his second a Salvador Dali surrealistic nightmare, while the brickwork on the third was fine, other than a list of 45 degrees.

We called in the original builder who recreated our solid wall for R1 600, which the neighbour who'd caused the damage smilingly, like Lady Macbeth, agreed to pay. That was eight months ago. Gentle and polite reminders have elicited no response as have direct demands for reimbursement.

So what does one do? “Shoot him,” said my good friend Betty, always the activist. I think she was joking. But I thought it a good idea.

“Knock down his wall. I'll help you,” said my little mother, a grandmotherly 83-year-old as big as a flea. I thought that a good idea too. “Sue him,” said our neighbour across the road. Another good idea. But, because we'll both live here for a good few years, legal action seems inappropriate. So, I am protesting in my own silent way. When I find moles in the garden, I dig holes under the wall and reroute them on to his newly laid lawn. And, I have planted a large camphor tree and three fig trees, with vicious root systems, right up against his garage.

They were away for the long weekend and I noticed water flooding from their balcony. It was obvious their new plumbing was as lousy as ours.

“Good,” I said to my husband. “I hope the whole house floods.”

“You've become a nasty person,” said my husband as he switched off the water main in their driveway.

He's right. But I really didn't plan to build a stinky compost heap just outside our neighbour's bedroom window. It was just the best spot. And I've only used pig manure because they say it makes the best compost. Honestly.

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