My Neighbours Pick their Noses

Oftentimes, when I'm tired or ill or beset by giant rats (or when I simply have nothing better to do with my time), I look up real estate listings for the Cayman Islands. This may, at first glance, seem like an exercise without purpose, considering the state of my finances. Indeed, it probably is, but hope springs eternal, and I sincerely hope to call Grand Cayman (or some similar island paradise) home some day. I can just see it now, a journal entry from some distant date:

Bloody tourists were at it again this morning, tromping all over my five-hundred yards of beach. Don't see why they can't tromp the Robertsons, instead. If there's anyone deserving of a good tromping, it's them. I had another unpleasant encounter with Mr. R. yesterday afternoon: there I was, sat sitting on a rock with my binoculars out, watching a pair of finches quarrelling on my roof, when doesn't the old wanker float over on a silly blow-up raft!

"Ey, Socar," he goes.

"Hello, Mr. Robertson." (Remember from Seinfeld, the way Jerry used to say "Hello, Newman"? Well, imagine that, but with twice the loathing.)

"Nice weather we're having, what?"

"Quite. I was just getting in a spot of birdwatching...here, in my front yard, sort of thing. I love having the sort of front yard which is suitable for the peaceful enjoyment of nature."

"Oh, yeh," he enthuses, clueless. "That's why we bring the kids here, to get away from it all!"

Get away from it all? I think to myself. Jesus H, man, you bring it all with you! Those kids of yours--well, it's a wonder anyone's slept a wink this summer!

"And how long will you be staying this year?" I say, all innocent.

"All summer."

"All summer?"

"Till September."

(Oh, Christ!)

Anyhow, at that point, I put up my binoculars in a dismissive sort of way, returning my attention to the finches. I was hoping Mr. Robertson'd take the hint and shove off, but he stuck around nattering for a good half-hour. During said natter, I somehow managed to get myself invited to dinner this evening. It won't be a proper dinner, of course--it'll be grilled sausages and buns (both the bread kind and the naked-kids kind) on the beach. What a pain!

I'd meant to spend the afternoon on my contribution to Weird Audubon #12, but now I've got to run into town for wine--can't show up empty-handed, after all--so that's shot. Bloody tourists!

Piece of heaven, eh? I mean, imagine me complaining about tourists stepping on my private bit of beach! I'd be grinning fit to split my face in half the whole time.

No matter what size of place I got, I'd end up inhabiting only one room, knowing me. That room, however, would be vigilantly guarded against insect invaders. Every morning, before doing anything else, I'd go on patrol with a rolled-up newspaper, swatting everything that flew or crawled or scuttled. I'd prowl till satisfied, then sweep the tiny, broken corpses out the door--whoosh! Bugs begone!

With my home thus sterilized, I'd prepare to face the outdoors. This, I imagine, would involve a lot of bug spray and a large umbrella (to keep off the sun). I would have a porch, I think, with a little table on it, and I'd sit out there drawing all morning. When the afternoon heat settled in, I'd mooch on down to the ocean, and test the waves with my feet. I wouldn't go in too deep, in case a crab happened by and pinched me--I'd stick to the shallows, mucking about happily in the foam. I'd bring binoculars, and spy on

a) arcane seagull rituals

b) rich hosers in sailboats

c) my neighbours.

At night, or on rainy days, I'd roost in a cushioned window-seat, peering through an interesting-looking brass telescope. It'd be an antique one, I think, that'd once sailed with pirates. I'd watch the waves, and pretend I was waiting for

a) a treasure ship

b) Prince Charming

c) the start of an exciting seafaring adventure.

On Thursdays, a man would come from the market with eggs and milk and bread, and maybe some fresh fruit and vegetables. On Fridays, there'd be the postman--infernal bills! In the back yard, I'd grow orchids and tomatoes. There'd be a hammock strung between two trees, where I'd sometimes curl up with a book, and a wonky bird bath that couldn't be persuaded to stand straight. A path would lead into a mosquito-ridden forest. I'd pretend I knew where that path ended up, and write lots of stories about things I'd seen while walking there, but I'd never really have been more than a hundred yards in.

Every summer, when the tourists arrived in their droves, I'd harangue 'em to death in my journal, blaming them for everything from an increase in the mosquito population to the ridiculous price of eggs. Every winter, trapped indoors by wind and rain, I'd lament the halcyon days of sunshine and laughter. None of my complaints would have any substance, of course, but it'd never do to let the grumpy exterior slip. Folks might start thinking I'd gone soft.

Until those days come, rainy evenings shall find me bunched up in my solarium, spying, with unaided eye, upon

a) street traffic

b) aerial birdfights

c) my neighbours, many of whom pick their noses.