MAN ON FIRE
It’s early Monday evening and I’m waiting for the lift in my apartment block. My two-year-old son is clutching my hand, while his baby brother is happily drooling over my left shoulder. We’re heading off to the park. The lift door opens and out comes my neighbour from across the landing. “Hey Monica,” I say, “How are . . .”
“YOU’RE MORE LIKELY TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK IN THE TWO HOURS AFTER AN OUTBURST ”
“I’ve got a migraine!” she snaps. “You’ve had the door open to your flat and the smell of whatever the hell you’re cooking is so strong that I haven’t been able to concentrate on my work. I’ve had to spray my expensive perfume all around my apartment just to cover up the smell! Why keep your door wide open?”
“Hang on, I’ve just got back from work. What’s happened?”
“And your children make such a bloody row! Screaming. Crying. Carrying on. Day and night. Can’t you think about your neighbours?”
I feel a slight tightness in my shoulders. “Uh-oh, have the kids been causing a ruckus?”
“Keeping your pram outside the door is so dangerous, too. I’m going to report it as a fire hazard. I’ve had a migraine all day.”
“Look Monica, I’m sorry for any bother. The good news is we’re actually moving out in a couple of weeks.”
“You’re moving out? Fantastic! What date?”
