Living Close

     When I heard my next door neighbor's phone ring last night, I knew for sure. This is what you call close quarters, folks. So, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

     Or even better, just zip it up totally.  

      We've rented the top two floors of a terraced house in London. An upper maisonette, as its called here. (Shoulda gone for a whole house probably, but it was really expensive.) 

      The master bedroom is an attic conversion, i.e. they've converted what was the attic of this old house and made it into a big bedroom. That's what attracted us to this 3-bedroom flat when we first saw it. That's what made us overlook its other flaws -- like the steep stairwell leading to the first floor that we couldn't get any furniture up. 

      Anyway, the bedroom has three big skylight windows cut into the roof of the house, which I love to just have open all the time to let the breeze through.

      That's one of the best things about London, for me. All those big windows and fresh air you can just let in. It's never too hot, really, no matter what the Brits say. Certainly not compared to Italy -- or the muggy U.S. city I just came from. No mosquitos. No air-con, of course. (what? for one day a year?) 

     But, with all that fresh air and open windows comes a distinct lack of privacy -- which you forget at your own peril.  

     We've had our living room windows open in the evenings recently while we're watching TV or reading. I've noticed that our next-door neighbor, whose bedroom is on the same level as our living room (since she occupies her entire house rather than just the top of it), has had her window open too.

     She probably heard the entire conversation I had with my son on the phone the other night, without even straining, as she was lying in bed maybe, trying to go to sleep.

     Oh dear. 

     Problem is, with the five-hour time difference and the fact my son is still a college kid and so does not rise early, you just can't call that early from here. And it was a nice summer's evening, so aren't you allowed to crack the windows a bit?  

     But it works both ways. When we have jet-lag, or when my husband works a very late shift, both of which happened last week, we routinely get woken to the sound of sawing across the street too early for us. They've been redoing a house across the street since the day we moved in.  

     Anyway, yesterday, we were in our attic bedroom when a moment of tension arose. Voices were raised. (About the stuff. Husband a lot less emotional about the stuff).  

     Then we noticed the three open windows. 

     "The guys across the street must've heard every word of that," my husband said.

     Oh god. Just hide in the house for the rest of the day, I think.