Kevin Page: Too neighbourly for my own good

Haunted melody aside, looking after the moggie down the road occasionally is the neighbourly thing to do. Photo / File

The good thing about living where we do is we all help each other out.

This may be something as simple as keeping an eye on the house while neighbours are away or feeding the moggie.

The latter may be very difficult especially if said feline has been keeping you awake all night with its own rendition of I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston, right outside your bedroom window.

Think back to the late songstress screeching ("And I-I-I-I-I-I ya eye I-I-I- will always love yew-wu-wu-wu-wuuuuuuuu!!!!!!") at the top of her range and I'm sure you'll get the picture.

You resist the urge to do something despicable to the cat, (because people we do not do that to animals do we) and glare hard at them instead in the misguided hope they understand you are mightily peed off, tired and hoping like hell your look is hurting their feelings . . . and you are not looking like the Village Idiot.

An aside. I had an uncle in just that situation once. He stared hard at the cat for 10 minutes projecting hate, I kid you not. In the end the cat charged at him, ran up his trouser leg and scratched him on the arm.

Go figure.

Maybe the cat didn't like the Village Idiot.

Anyway.

Occasionally there is a need in the neighbourhood for many hands to make light work as was the case recently when Former Farmer sent out a call for assistance in shifting a cumbersome spa pool.

I am always up for such endeavours.

It's one of those you help me, I'll help you, sort of unwritten things.

I am blessed with friends who are plumbers, electricians, builders etc and I know they look after me when it comes to service and the bill.

Unfortunately I work in an industry where I don't have a service to offer in return though I'm working on sorting out a regular plan with the Scottish Plumber where I pay him in scorched almonds and whiskey.

And Sparkie Bruce would probably fall off his new mountain bike if I said I'd pay for the rewiring of the house by writing him a story. (Just a thought, Bruce. Let me know what you think)

So I offer physical labour instead.

Luckily when Former Farmer called the other day I had been engaging in physical activity elsewhere and was suitably attired. Workboots. Short shorts. Rugged old jersey. Crappy cap. I could have stepped straight out of the cab of a logging truck.

Former Farmer is always on the ball with some advice on passionfruit vines, lawns etc so it seemed only right I should provide some muscle in return.

And if the truth be known there was also the possibility my labours would be rewarded with a sumptuous scone or other such baking delight conjured up from within the kitchen by Mrs Former Farmer.

So over I went where several other neighbours had already gathered.

We solemnly gathered around the spa pool and, on the word of our leader, took the strain.

Unfortunately part of my attire did not fare so well.

As I squatted for the final shove there was an explosion of stitching and my short shorts became, well, quite ventilated.

In such a position I was unable to partake of any after-shift refreshment and beat a hasty retreat back to the confines of my place and the comforting ministrations of Mrs P who fell about laughing when I showed her the damage.

As for Former Farmer I'm considering a claim for damages. I know he's good with advice on the state of the passionfruit vine and the lawn.

I just wonder if he's any good with a needle and thread.

Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.