In new and other news, a location scout came to the door today wanting to take some piccies. He was enamoured of our close spatial relationship with the (hot, male, possibly gay and loud muscle-car owning) neighbours since the drama series he’s scouting for requires two villas in close proximity. Suddenly my flatmate (for the purposes of this blog) Jock’s intimate view of next door's bedroom is real estate gold. For $500/day we would get our fence knocked down and a carport built. The neighbours, for their pain, would have astro-turf laid over their backyard carpark. At the very least. I wonder what the landlord, well, property managers will say?
In all truth they probably won’t care – last week the (family of Samoan) neighbours on the other side laid a ladder up against the fence the Grey Lynn Singles Club and gaily started constructing a tree-house at eye-level *in our tree*. Our tree. After ringing the propety manager I was assured that as the occupants of the Grey Lynn Singles Club we’re the ones who get to say yea or nay to any extra activity on the property. Armed with this knowledge I slunk next door with (lets call him) Hank to complain and inquire why they hadn’t asked our permission before extending their boundary rights over the fence. It transpired that the man of the house had, in fact, asked our old flatmate “Anna” just before she vacated the premises 6 months ago. How gaily she must have replied in the affirmative before galloping into the sunset. I was mollified by this piece of information however. When the neighbour told us he remembered when the tree in question was planted, 38 years ago, I decided he had some customary rights owing. So now we have a tree-house. And lovely neighbours. Tonight they came over with a huge yummy plate of barbecue food. I'm planning on making a christmas cake to return the hospitality. Most excellent.