A neighbour of a Twitter
chum emailed her to let her know that he would be phoning later to arrange an
opportunity to come round and visit. She
then tweeted to share the irony of a neighbour emailing her to let her know
that he would be phoning later to arrange an opportunity to come round and
visit and I replied to ask why her neighbour didn’t come round to tell her that
he’d emailed her to let her know that he would be phoning later to arrange an
opportunity to come round and visit, just in case she hadn’t checked her emails. I suggested that she ask him why, but
cautiously advised that she phone to ask him rather than go round. But to email first.
We milked the absurdity of
this social farce as far as we could, within the constraints of 140 characters
and the patience of our shared audience:
So, about 2 more tweets then. And
it prompted me to muse that in the old days people just popped round.
When I was growing up, the
woman next door was always just popping round to chat to my mum. And she’d say, “I’m just popping round.” And my Dad would think, “She’s fucking
round!” – replacing POPPING with FUCKING because there was no FUCKING POPPING
about it. No more that Hitler or Napoleon
POPPED round Europe. No more than Jack
the Ripper POPPED round fucking Whitechapel.
But my mum liked our neighbour popping round and I must say that,
casting a rose-tinted eye back into the past, I like the idea that people used
to just pop round.
But I wouldn’t want anyone
fucking popping round nowadays.
I LOVE people “visiting”. You know, pre-arranged. So, I’ve Hoovered and I’m not in the middle
of something and I haven’t recently created a toxic breathing environment in
the lavatory and I won’t begin to sink into an abyss of anxiety about how long
they might STAY round. Even if I REALLY LIKED them.
Back to the past and all
that bollocks about how you could leave your door open during the war and
people would just pop in unannounced. I
guess, with no easy access to porn in those days, the likelihood of being
caught in a compromising situation was limited and no more embarrassing than
listening to Vera Lynn on the radio and wearing your wife’s knocked-off nylons
while you did so. People had nothing to
nick in those days anyway. Years later
they had porn. On Betamax. So they locked their doors. And if anyone wanted to pop round they’d have
to knock. Then at least you could
pretend that you weren’t in. But not if
you’d just turned on the waste disposal, because then your sink would be making
a noise like someone driving a 13 foot high bus through a 10 foot high metal tunnel.
Popping round in those
days was always justified with a REASON and that reason was always a cup of
coffee. “Just popping round for a
coffee!” And would my Dad would mutter, “Why? Doesn’t she have any fucking coffee then? Next time just phone and we’ll post you a
spoonful or flick some over the fence; save you the fucking walk.” And my neighbour and my mum would stand in
the kitchen and drink coffee and chat (or shout if the waste disposal was on)
until my neighbour decided that she should leave, saying “I’d better go” but
without any justified reason, because she really had fuck all else to do; and
my mum would say, “Yes, I best get on,” and would go upstairs for another
coffee and a fag and an hour of telly before “getting on” with anything.
Anyway, just so that you
know, I’ll be tweeting to tell people that I’ve written this blog, but I
thought I’d best mention in the blog that I’ll be tweeting and just to be on
the safe side, I’ll mention in the tweet that… well, you get the picture. If not, I’ll pop round and explain.
