Our next-door days are numbered. I will be moving house soon and then my neighbour will be my neighbour no more.
I’ve actually been dreading to tell him, worried that telling him will make him more adamant than ever to have me over for dinner. But as the day approaches there’s no beating around the bush anymore; there are people coming to see my apartment, and I break the news gently.
My neighbour’s crying wolf via the medium of my doorbell, making it ring no less than three times in rapid succession. Perhaps he’s set his place on fire or he’s desperate for more toilet paper. Less likely, but as it happens, a lot more accurate, is that he wants to show me a massive box of Playmobil from the Egyptian set. My neighbour is now the proud owner of the official Playmobil pyramid.
He says he won this in Müller’s advent calendar competition – a prize contest that he’s entered no less than twenty-eight times. Needless to say he’s expecting more packages to be coming in during the next weeks.
He’s knocking on my door like he means it. What else can I do?
“You know, your doorbell isn’t working.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s up?”
“You should really get that fixed.”
