Knowing thy neighbour can be a ladder to better things
It's disturbing that ever fewer people talk to those they live next to.
The dinner's on the stove, the baby's gurgling away on the lounge room floor and yours truly is pulling her hair out on the welcome mat.
Yep, I'm locked out, and no matter how many times I slowly count to 10, I can't remember where we have hidden the spare key. Only after my frantic cries over the gate are met with uncharacteristic silence do I make a mad dash up the road and return with my friend's husband David in tow. And a ladder.
Precious moments later the door clicks and opens, and there stands David with the baby and a smile almost as big as his bravado (let's just say he risked more than the odd splinter scaling the fence to get to the back door).
Everybody needs good neighbours. And not just for semi-dramatic rescues. Sure, my laptop keeps me connected (especially being at home with the kids), but it isn't a patch on the impromptu, organic conversations struck up while in a playground or supermarket.
The home-cooked meals that materialised in the first weeks of having my children are long gone, but not so the watercolour by the kids next door welcoming our first baby home. It's still on his wall, four years on. And when it comes to play dates, he and I are both spoilt for choice.
Still, I wasn't entirely surprised to read that we are quick to assign neighbourly behaviour to a bygone era. High-density living has altered the suburban backdrop and, with it, our desire for interaction. Disputes over planning, parking or dog poo can be fraught, especially when emotions run high. ''Neighbours from hell'' are bread and butter to Today Tonight and its ilk, and not every colourful local character is what you could call charming.
But I was saddened to learn that more than 50 per cent of people don't talk to their neighbours. A That's Life magazine survey also found that close to 40 per cent wouldn't know their neighbour if they ran into them.
And while need is a driving force, it certainly isn't the sole reason for us to get chummy with our neighbours. More than place, and irrespective of demographic, suburbs reveal much of the human psyche. Little wonder they pulse with so much contradiction. They are the sum of all we invest into them, and all that we don't - our one true social barometer.
Rattling her old grey trolley down the bluestone alley, there's no missing Betty. Bent at a permanent right angle due to a congenital back condition, she cuts a stoic figure. I've often passed her on my way to the shops.
It was Betty who made the first move. She asked my fidgety little son his name. The next 10 minutes were a blur, mainly due to the persistence of my tears. I swat at them as Betty shares fragments of life.
Yes, her disability meant she rarely left the house where she lived alone, but, at 88, she said life was looking up. A recently bereaved man had started coming around to see her. Nothing romantic, she gently chides when I raise an impertinent eyebrow. Since the death of his mother, whom he had cared for exclusively, the man had been in free-fall. It was a council worker who put them in contact.
To me this exemplified how neighbourhoods work best: bringing two people in the same street just that little bit closer. The symbiosis of cause and effect; a relationship built on profound loss and nascent trust.
The beauty of neighbourhood friendships is that they need nothing more cohesive than free time to prosper.
The neighbour I'll call Lucy lived on the top floor of the council flats opposite our house. We met when I was not long on maternity leave and at a loose end. Standing on the busy road we made small talk as trucks thundered by, each staving off our singular isolation.
Now that I think back, it was Lucy who broke the ice. She stopped me in the street with a smile. If her eyes betrayed anything, it was only that she enjoyed gazing at my then tiny newborn. It was much later that I learnt that Lucy was childless.
The day after Lucy took her life, the blinds were drawn. They stayed that way for months. Her flat went into mourning. All these years later I still miss her not being around. I feel our inner-city hub is bereft.
Perhaps that's why I can't help thinking that closing ourselves off to our neighbours is more than just a disturbing trend. It's a denial of possibility as much as opportunity, and all it takes to feel its chill is to be the one standing on the wrong side of the door.
Jen Vuk is a freelance writer.
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