My name is Margot. I don’t think much of the new neighbours. For starters, they are foreigners and don’t fit well into the area. In fact they lower the tone of the suburb considerably. Not that I’ve anything against foreigners, but when people come to a country that is not theirs they should make some effort to fit in; meld into the surroundings. You’d think they would; that’s what rats do. Peacocks strut around, and when a peacock shows off and spreads its tail you can see its arsehole. These people strut around like they own the place.
The new neighbours, so I heard, are Antoinette and Leon from Beijing or somewhere. China anyway. You can tell these things even though they’ve taken Western names. I thought communists were meant to be not so well off, but you should see their three cars! And the house they live in (I presume they rent and don’t own, though why the landlord thinks it’s okay to rent to communists I have no idea) is one of the most lavish houses in our neighbourhood. And that’s saying something. They’ve got three young children. No wonder the world is overrun.
Here comes the one called Antoinette up my path now. Presumably she’s going to ask for a cup of noodles or something! Chop! Chop!
Ching Chong Chinaman Coming up my path I shall pretend to be foreign Just for a laugh.
“Hello. My name’s Antoinette. I’m the new neighbour. I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.”
“When you come from China?”
“When you come from China to dis place?”
“From China? I didn’t. My family have been here since 1824.”
Almost an entire section of New York was in darkness after an electrical explosion put a stop to trains and traffic lights. What a shemozzle! And the mayor of the city wasn’t even in town. No one could cook their dinner. It was useless going out to eat as the restaurants too were without power. Theatre performances ground to a halt. Nancy Tubman, the rising darling of Broadway, was half way through singing “Somewhere over the…” when the blackout hit. For two and a half hours residents were subjected to darkness. One can only imagine the havoc that will ensue once the Russians gain the power to flick a switch on the entire city. Congresswoman, Eliza Muktha Zaiton, from California said, “This power blackout in parts of a suburb of New York was yet another manifestation of global warming and of the racism that has gripped the country. So step up and shut up.” Hector Tronkwell of the Hollywood Actors’ Union said that “This effing halting of effing Nancy effing Tubman, the effing rising effing darling of effing Broadway, half way through her effing song was yet another effing example of where we are effing at.”
Not the Breaking News:
Mrs. Claudia Jones said she had been living in a tent on the street with her three children for four months now. With winter fast approaching Congresswoman, Eliza Muktha Zaiton, from California, said something needs to be done to fight the cold so she is supporting the removal of all tents from city streets.
The Lovelady family had lived on the street since the street was made. That must have been about fifteen years ago. Families came and went, but it seemed the Lovelady’s were part of the very fabric of the street. I suppose there were about thirty houses altogether. That made thirty families.
The Lovelady’s were very community minded. Mrs Lovelady (let’s call her Frances-Maud because that was her name) always made it her business to visit any new family that came into the street. She would take along a basket of freshly baked goodies, and knock on the door.
“Welcome to the street!” she would say. She wasn’t the slightest bit gossipy, but everyone was grateful for her kindness. She could answer questions too that new house owners always wanted to know; such as what day of the week did the trash collecting vehicle come?
It would be too much to say that Frances-Maud was a bit of an institution. But she was, in a way! And Mr Lovelady, he was equally sociable. Even though he left reasonably early for his work as a heart surgeon and came back reasonably late, he somehow managed to know all the people on the street, and the names of all their kids. On Saturdays he coached the local boys’ football team. Once though, he went to hospital for a hernia operation and was away for three days. All the kids in the street put up a huge banner that said WELCOME HOME, MISTER LOVELADY!
Anyway, a new family had arrived, just before Christmas, at Number 22. Frances-Maud baked a lovely batch of things, decorated a basket with little sprigs of Christmas, and knocked on the door of Number 22.
“Piss off!” came a voice from inside. “We don’t let niggers into the house.”