Better a good neighbor

Our big sister, you know: Franska, went on an investigation. She wanted to know what the big concerns were per generation and if I could share the concerns of the 31-year-old. No problemo, I'm happy to do that. One of the things I worry about is the lack of time I spend with friends and family. Thank goodness they are all quite busy themselves, but when my grandma calls four times on my birthday to congratulate me and I'm too busy to pick up, I feel like a degenerate granddaughter. Or daughter or friend or sister. I want to see them all, but sometimes on Saturdays I also lovingly close my curtains, put the fleece blanket over my head, and pretend with my beloved that we are not home. And that last part has been noticed. By the neighbors.

In mid-May, I moved to a nice place in a village by the Vecht. So far, everything had been idyllic. But we are the kind of couple that is often away. I don't even know exactly when we became that, but we are. On a weekday, we are out from eight to seven, and that’s definitely from Monday to Friday. Sometimes it runs a bit late and we show up around eight. Or we are at friends or family. In any case, we are late. When the weekend comes, this continues. It can vary from a little two hours out to two days, just depending on how it works out. I didn't care about that because I thought we only had each other to worry about, my love and I. Turns out that's not the case. I came home and there was a note wedged between my door. From the neighbors, who live at the beginning of the other street. A postal company claimed to have delivered a package to us, and the neighbor in question had already been by our place endlessly, and I quote, he never finds us home.

It's a mystery to me how a mail order company can even get a package inside our place, which it didn't, but I went to visit the neighbor in question. A tad annoyed, because in my view, the best man had nothing to do with how often I am home or not. Upon arriving at the strangers' house, the entire family appeared in the hallway to let me know that we were really hardly ever home. And that they had already heard that from our other neighbors. It's just that I was raised to be polite, otherwise I would probably have let slip a what-the-fuck.

I know there is a good saying about neighbors. I have often mentioned that because I have had neighbors of a seriously good caliber. They watered the plants, even when I didn't ask. They picked up the mail from the mat when I suddenly turned out to be on a boat for a few days. But there wasn't a single one in my existence who thought I was home too little.

Now I feel like I have to let them know that I am here. I drive a little extra backward and forward through the street when I come home. I cough extra loud in the hallway so they can hear me. And I just barely don't tackle the postman when I see him unloading outside. But just EVERYTHING to let them know that we are indeed here. Even though they have no what-the-fuck to do with it. I think.