The misadventures of one American

I sat on the windowsill on Friday and had a listen to the visitors to downstairs. It wasn't hard, or particularly taxing. The girl that lives diagonal to us has a voice that could penetrate the standing Berlin Wall. But even with a sound that seemed like it came from next to me, I could only make out certain phrases and sentences. The Wigan accent, whilst not lilting or particularly irritating, is thick and brutish, a mix of hard vowels, dropped words and strange tenses. Interpreting it can be interesting.

What I did hear were a number of things about my husband and I. Like what to do if the council asks you if you were playing music, 'I just say no....' she trailed off, apparently making some kind of gesture. The insinuation being, lying is easy. A light bulb went on over my head and I realized why the estate manager hadn't believed us. As bizarre and paranoid as it sounds, we'd been ganged up on. I remembered what Dot told me 'you're outsiders here. They stick with their own.'

The girl from 14 went on to say we 'needed to understand we aren't the end all be all.' Because, apparently, wanting to go to sleep at a reasonable time meant we thought we were. I thought it meant I wanted to go to work without a splitting headache and some modicum of awareness. I guess not.

I couldn't understand much more, so I closed the window and plonked back down on the couch. I don't know how it all got this far. My husband and I didn't and don't see them as enemies. We see them as neighbors, just ones we don't pay a lot of attention to. Our first interaction with Lyndsey, the diagonal neighbor, was when we came home from dinner with friends to find the whole block having a party. On a Sunday night/Monday morning. It went until 3:00am.

A few times she showed she was a little saner than our direct next door neighbor, the Alcoholic. When he accused us of banging on the load bearing concrete wall between our flats during their... intimate... times, she looked at him as strangely as we did.

But somehow, through all of our noise complaints and intolerance of their behavior, we've become their enemy. Because Lyndsey can stay up until 4:00am on workdays, we should be able to as well. And no doubt this is also in some small part due to our getting next door a Good Behavior Agreement (expired in February, sadly.) Emma downstairs sees that as us 'ruining people's lives.' I saw it as an assurance of a peaceful life.

I can't understand this mentality. When I thought I was disturbing people in the past, I was only belligerent if they hadn't spoken to me first. And we tried and tried to talk to them. The girl at 14 had the gall to tell us not to bang on her door at 4:00am when her music was too loud 'from Paris to Berlin in every disco I get in.....' I think you can damned well beat on anything disturbing you at 4:00 in the morning. And no loud music at 2:00am for next door turned into blaring music throughout the apartment during the day that you could hear over everything.

Emma and Dom downstairs and no doubt the Alcoholic and Lyndsey say they have 'rights.' What about ours? What about mine right now to be free of fear from retribution because we allegedly live in a civilized society? What about not setting up cameras to watch the car at night? Or know I can sleep? Do I forgo those because I choose to live in a neighborhood that isn't middle class? Does benefit dependency mean a lack of respect for everyone around you? Or are we unreasonable?

Either way, the next 2 months will be rough.

Why I hate Wigan and Leigh Housing

I arrived home last night around 7:00pm, after a rather hellish day on the trains. Yes, more thieves ran off with signalling cable outside of Atherton. Damn the price of scrap copper! Damn people who don't commute! As a result of this 'vandalism' we were re-routed to Wigan via Bolton, the day I'd left my phone at home.

Good all around then.

Finally arrived home to find Stairsailor singing about Daddy's eyes etc, etc. Our new downstairs neighbors like to listen to music at top volume it seems.

This is only about the third time it's happened, but due to our previous issues with our neighbors (For the click phobic read: alleged prostitution, alleged drug dealing, verified fighting in the streets, loud music, police calls as recently as a few weeks ago!) we're less than tolerant.

A bit of background, it took us from August of 2001 to February of 2007 to get anything done about our next door neighbor. It took a letter to the Chief Executive and quoting DEFRA guidelines to get him a good behavior agreement. Know how many complaints we've had against us? 2. One because I left a note on the former downstairs neighbor's car asking her to park a little more considerately. (Harassment apparently.) And another shortly after the most recent complaint in January of 2007 against Michael Gaskell (the black out drunk that liked to listen to very loud music) about my husband and I arguing.

So, Mr. Me wandered downstairs to see if he could get them to turn it down a bit. We don't need to hear the lyrics to their music, you know? What ensued was a horrendous argument in between the four of us. The girl threatened me (my response 'You're actually threatening me because we asked you to turn down your stereo?' her after some umming and ahhing 'yes.' What do you say to that, really?) We got things sorted out eventually and filled them in on the neighborhood gossip. They seemed pretty surprised. Mr. Me saw them this morning and apparently it was all smiles.

Come to find out that Terry O'Mara our estate manager told them we were serial complainers and not to take anything from us. How amazingly professional is that? Remember though, to get anything done about our abusive alcoholic loud music listening neighbor, we had to go over his head. He refused to do anything constructive besides have little chats with him. And have we mentioned anything to him since that was resolved besides me admitting to causing a disturbance upon finding out our picnic table was stolen? No. We did contact him about our concerns regarding our convicted neighbor rapist and he spoke to my husband, but not me.

Deeply unprofessional.

I did complain about his behavior to Wigan and Leigh Housing via e-mail yesterday. I'm seriously stunned that anyone would behave so inappropriately. But in my dealings with them, I'm not terribly surprised. With the exception of serious violations, they've been deeply incompetent from the beginning. Including losing our paperwork from 2001-2003 (I think.) They're always in the news for screwing up as well.

I'm aware of the irony of complaining about being called serial complainers but I'm furious. Michael Gaskell made our lives hell for 5.5 years and they offered no support or solutions, even though they were obliged to. We'll see what, if anything, they do about it. I'm betting on nothing.

Who steals little picnic tables?

We arrived home from the pub and dropping our Gav off around 3:00am on Sunday. I was in a pretty good mood, despite being sick and stressed last week I think I loosened up enough to blow off some steam. As we opened the door Mr. Me noticed something was missing. Our little table. We had this little picnic table outside our door that we used for BBQs and outdoor Scrabble. It's gone now.

We suspect it was Sex Offender Steve who, for whatever reason, decided it now belongs to him. It was one of the few things we told him to leave alone but he has quite a distorted sense of what's his and what's ours. The things we asked him to leave alone he didn't, just proceeded as he pleased with no consideration for how we felt.

Here's what we told him to leave alone:

The trees. (Cut Down.)

Our chairs (were in his yard, we have them back now.)

Our paving stones (sold/given to his brother)

Our stupid little table (now missing.)

I lost it, I'm not proud. But living above this guy has me in a state most of the time now. I'm nervous in case one of the local plebs decides to exact some justice, I hate him and the very sight makes me feel ill.

A long time ago the Mr. said he could use our yard. As a result his DIY stuff is all over the place, like everywhere you look is a piece of wood or a tool of some kind. So now our little table is gone, I decided he can't use our yard anymore and tossed as much as I could manage back over the fence.

It's stupid, but the picnic table was the last straw. We hadn't done anything to him. We haven't done anything to deserve having our things stolen. But he did it anyway.

I guess 16 years inside doesn't teach you how to live with other people.

After my fit of 'get out!' we went to bed where I tried my best to fall asleep.

But that dream soon evaporated, within about 10-15 minutes I heard car doors slam. He called the police.

They came around and talked to us. I told them I was upset about our little table being stolen and Sex Offender Steve had stolen things from us before. They asked about how the yards are divided and I explained the back bit was ours. They seemed satisfied and left (after laughing when I burst into tears and apologized as I'd drunk too much gin.)

I slept poorly on Sunday. I'm so anxious, so angry, so drained, so frustrated. I hate this so much. This is my home. It's horrible, but it's mine.

The vigilantes are here

When I found out about this I went through a fair spectrum of negative emotion. The most dominating one was fear. What had Steve done to get 16 years? The rumor on the estate is it had something to do with disfigurement. What did the girl look like now? Suddenly he changed from being the inconsiderate DIY fanatic to being a sinister figure of violence.

But mostly the fear wasn't from him directly. Our neighborhood isn't a Guardian reading middle class party. It's more working class, the types that gladly take justice into their own hands. I could almost hear the rallying cries around me from last Tuesday. Though they may be friends with thieves and drug dealers, they aren't rapists. And rapists are different.

We thought we'd made it through the worst. It's been a week since we had a note slipped to us from a friend about what he is. Since then the police park outside our flat a lot. It comforts and scares us. I'm not used to such a high police presence. We thought they came to check up on Steve, make sure he was where he said he was and not because of any external threat. What we didn't anticipate is vigilante-ism can start quietly.

Last night was a literal breaking point. I was playing Civ IV and listening to Have I got news for you. I've had difficulty unwinding at home lately, I need a lot of distraction to relax. And just as I fended off the barbarian hordes an almighty crash shook the floor. We hoped it was just stupidity from downstairs. It's common enough for our neighbor to fall on something or knock down a shelf. He enjoys DIY projects, but isn't particularly graceful about them. When he tried to hack into a tree in our backyard he broke his collarbone. We looked out the window and saw nothing but an empty street and our neighbor across the road peering out of his window. It's that kind of place.

From our angle we couldn't see anything wrong. My first concern was our car. It sat directly in front of his door. But it looked fine, the evening frost was undisturbed. A little while later I saw headlights shine on the small brick water building next to our block of flats. A policeman got out and went downstairs.

We investigated and found two large holes in our neighbor's windows. He was bricked. A clear message for him to get out. The police officer came to our flat and suggested that though this kind of violence against him is kind of satisfying, we're in danger. I know. Our consolation at this point is we haven't received any kind of threatening letters or phone calls. The footprints in the grass suggested they'd come close enough to aim accurately. They know who they're after and it isn't us.

What concerns me anyway is we might get caught in the crossfire. The more this escalates, the more perilous living in our home becomes. The more fearful I become. But not because of what the man downstairs did, because of the people trying to do good by driving him out. I'm sure that's what they want. It's what I want too. I just wish there was a way to make that happen with out endangering innocent people. Like me.

My neighbor is a rapist.

Tuesday evening Andy-Across-The-Road delivered some strange news. News you could verify.

My neighbor is a convicted rapist.

Specifically, this neighbor.

I'm very, very conflicted about this. On one hand, he served a 16 year sentence. His time is done, finished, debt to society served. On the other hand, the part of me that fantasizes about kicking him in the nuts for cutting down the trees in our yard wants to beat him over the head with a shovel. And a 16 year sentence for rape seems pretty steep.

I'm not really sure how you resolve feelings like this. Petty criminals I can handle. Our neighborhood is rife with car thieves, robbers and drug dealers. I know. But the drug they deal is pot. The cars they steal are from other parts of Wigan. The robberies were of post offices and banks. I can deal with those things.

But sexual violence makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's a primal thing, one you can't overcome just by being educated. And if anything, it's the education that sickens you.

Taking Liberties

Our back garden better resembles a nature preserve. Due to scheduling conflicts (too busy drinking, cavorting, gaming, reading, working, studying, talktalkhelling) we don't have a lot of time to deal with it. So when our downstairs neighbor moved in last fall Mr. Me decided to let him have it. When he told me, the dark mist of 'this isn't going to end well' went down over my eyes. Even though our brownspace wasn't exactly a haven of gardening, it was ours and set definite boundaries. I couldn't put my finger on it but I knew there were problems afoot.

Sure enough, the new neighbor (designated DIY Steve) has started taking liberties. Mr. Me and I moved some paving stones to a small area under a tree so we could have tiny BBQs during the summer. We're not big outside people, crossing that threshold between inside (where we can pretend we don't live in the ghetto) and outside is difficult when you have sub prime examples of humanity all around. Mr. Me told him the only thing not to move were these stones. Leave the area alone.

I'm not the most observant of people. For the most part when it's not mini-BBQ time I'm fairly oblivious to small changes in the local environment. But for the last few weeks I've had a feeling something is missing and today I worked it out. DIY Steve gave our paving stones away to some random family member. This is on top of having a bonfire at 11:30pm last night.

I wish it wasn't true that a vast majority of people will take the mile if given an inch. But it so is. Part of me wants to scream in frustration, part of me wants to live in a cave with nothing to give or take. I dislike being a selfish, closed individual. My nature is to help and be generous but every time someone chips away at my generosity, some part of me just flails and dies.

A bit private

Mr. Me and I were engaged in conversation by one of the locals yesterday. We learned who was doing what with who, who'd fallen out with who, who was a bit funny, etc, etc. I also learned that we're considered 'a bit private.'

Mr. Me tells me this means they know little about us and would like to know more. I'm slightly afraid. DIY Steve, however, seems to understand (after interacting with the local characters) exactly why we 'keep ourselves to ourselves.'

I find this amusing. I can't think of many in our social group or at work that would consider me a private person. It's just my idea of community consists of work and hobbies, not necessarily where I live. It's also not so much a matter that I think I'm any better than my neighbors, just that we're separated by class boundaries and interests.

I honestly couldn't see getting any of these people to the Retro Bar, nevermind a night of Elgar.

We also discovered that the next apartment block has some drug problems. Apparently the mother is on disability of some kind, while the kids (18-19) just run riot over the place. Two of our neighbors called the Greater Manchester Police on them to no avail. Wigan and Leigh Housing, likewise absolutely useless. Both are terribly unsurprising. My experiences with both agencies were all negative. Not once did I find them helpful, fast, interested....

Mind you, if I'd been smoking at a train station and looked wrong at staff, they'd be all over me like trash in Wigan town centre. Such priorities!

At least I work in a post code where they give a flying, if not live in one.