Louis Wise on living with the neighbours from heaven

There comes a time in every Londoner’s life when you decide you should befriend your neighbours. The city is so cold, you say; people are so cruel. You really yearn for a sense of community! Because what more do you need than someone else to cancel drinks with? Better yet, someone with a bird’s eye view of your sex life or your parenting skills — or, worst of all, your decor.

In my case, I wonder if I haven’t taken this a bit far. Ever since I moved into my flat two years ago, I’ve become disconcertingly dependent on the people across the hall. Gerry and Mary are, you may be able to guess, Irish. They are in their 70s and they look after me like the son they never had. Actually, they do have a son, and he seems very nice. But I’m just three metres away and worryingly available, which I suppose raises some questions about my own life.

I knew things were getting going on our first New Year’s Eve as neighbours, when I popped over for a drink — they poured me a tumbler full of whiskey, added a warm can of Coke, and the rest is a blur. I felt we’d crossed a new threshold when Mary added me on Facebook. But we really crossed a line when, one Saturday night at midnight, I got a knock on my door. It was Gerry. Mary was away in Ireland and would I come over for a drink? Actually, it was more of an order. He sat me down in the kitchenette and placed a bottle of white wine in front of me: ‘That’s for you.’ He had a Bag for Life filled with tinnies for himself, because apparently ‘it keeps them cooler’.

Over the next four hours we discussed everything from life to love to Brexit; we smoked a lot (I don’t smoke) and Gerry asked me if I believed in God. The answer, garbled and full of non sequiturs, was probably my clearest-ever take. I think he also told me he’d pulled Barbara Windsor once, but I’d need to check. It was only the next day that I remembered he was recovering from a triple heart bypass.

Since then, Gerry has fixed my front door; he’s also fixed my loo. Mary has given me plants. They are genuinely lovely. But what do I give them in return? I can’t drive and I can’t do DIY, and I certainly can’t do CPR. Never have I felt more like a useless millennial. Getting trashed in my apartment block with some retirees is possibly not the best way to expand my horizons. But it really does save on the Ubers.