Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

The walls

Emailed – 13.10.14

My wife told our next door neighbour that we were having another baby yesterday. I was not there, but she recounts that in response, he covered his face with his hands and shook his head.  This made me laugh out loud.


My wife tells me he quickly regained his composure and offered his congratulations. But STILL! Character is as character does Buddy, and you obviously have an issue with the results of my excessive love-making. (That made me laugh out loud –  I laugh at my own jokes – and I don’t care).

I recently wrote in a post that my three children were conceived in four attempts which is the whole truth. The idea of ‘excessive love-making’ tickled me royal blue. To my wife I am a means-to-an-end. A necessity to get the job done.  Step up to the plate, and then:

BACK TO YOUR SHED, you little sperm monkey!  Keep them warm …….until next time!

I have since been pondering what could have caused Mr Next Door to have such an adverse reaction to the creation of new life?  And after careful consideration I have concluded – It’s all about the walls.

Mr. Next Door and we share several walls. This I assume is the Webster’s definition of being neighbours and the very reason I can call Mr. Next door, Mr. Next Door?

Now whilst said walls are substantial, they are not sound proof. We are not talking new-build-paper-thin, but when Mr. Next Door sneezes loudly, as he tends to achoo, I have to stop myself from knee-jerking a gesundheit.

So picture me this: Imagine you live next door to my family and imagine say the year is 2011. You are just sitting down for your evening meal after a hard days work. You switch the TV on low, so as not to disturb the family living next door, by waking up their kids. All is quiet.  All is good.

From next door you become aware of a gentle mooing. It’s not unpleasant necessarily or intrusive, it’s just there. Like a cow grazing on the other side of the fence; its teats being gently milked by an experienced maiden with the warmest of hands  You check your watch – it’s 8pm.  All is well with the world. Mooooo.

When you check your watch again, as you put it back on after washing up, it says 9.15pm.  The quiet mooing from next door has been replaced now by a more frantic moo. More urgent let’s say. Perhaps the grazing cow is being herded onto a cattle cart? The farmer’s boot up its backside causing it to bleat out its moo.

The cow is trying to remain calm, like it has being hypnotised to do, at great cost, but its concern is definitely notable, both  in the volume and frequency of the moo.  You turn the TV up slightly and pour some wine. MOOOOOO.   MOOOOOO.
The next time you check your watch, so that you can accurately recount the time to the Police, it says 1am.  You have been pacing from room to room for what seems like a fortnight now.  You have tried to go to sleep, but the sound of the cow being butchered alive in the living room next door disturbs your slumber.

You have turned the TV off and the stereo on, but you can STILL hear it.  What once was a gentle, natural, loving moo, has become a moo that sounds like the arse fart of the devil. You can picture the cow being tortured by a working party made up of the Chinese, the Spanish Inquisition, Dr Mengele and a few guys from the Crusades.  You should probably call someone?

The sound is hideous. The moos sound like screams.  The cow is not a happy cow. You can hear the evil ones shouting things like ‘nearly there’ and ‘keep pushing’ and ‘don’t forget to moo‘.  It seems they are enjoying destroying the cow. You imagine pokers and pliers and hacksaws and cleavers, all slicing through chunks of cow for nothing more than self gratification. You’re doing great.  Well done! Pure evil.

You even hear one particularly cavalier voice offering everyone a cup of tea?! Mid carnage. What in GOD’S NAME is going on next door? The same voice, now from the kitchen, shouts out –  would anyone like a biscuit?

This is just sick and twisted. IT EVEN ASKS THE COW IF IT WOULD LIKE A BISCUIT.  But the cow declines. Not very politely.  Suit yourself.


And then – just like Kaiser Soze – poof – the cow is gone. Replaced by a screaming baby. OH JOY.

You finally get to sleep around 3am.  You have heard things that next door neighbours are not supposed to hear. You have been a part of something that you did NOT sign up for.  You’ve had all of the pain but with none of the pleasure. You are a changed next door neighbour. I can see it in your eyes.

So in retrospect, I forgive Mr Next Door for responding to the news of my third child with head-in-hands-despair.  He has to deal with daily noise from my house. Screaming children, banging doors, a furious father trying to maintain order, and  a mother trying to undo father’s heavy hand. AND he has had to deal with six hours of live birth noises without warning.  We all had training to prepare.  He did not.

And soon, he is going to have a visit from the cow again. Poor b*stard. I shall give him notice this time though. I may ask him to attend our anti-natal classes?  I am considering paying for him to stay in a hotel on the night the cow comes to stay.  This amuses me.

My neighbour has to have a bag packed and ready to go, so that when my wife goes into labour, he can leg it and leave us in piece to murder the cow.  Moo.

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