Some memoirs of apartment life down the years, as I wandered from one to another. Specifically some characters and events from above and/or below my residences. Spiced up to the max, natch.

The man of Athens. (sideways)
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Paul was a 26 yr old stick insect-thin out and out gay who lived in the room adjacent on the ground floor of the below-mentioned houseshare. I oftimes bumped into him in the kitchen whilst preparing my standard bedsit fare of pasta with canned tuna. He never seemed to be eating much more than crackers and cheese, however. All I remember was he dressed darkly and sported a perpetual badge on the grubby blazer he liked to wear at all times.

Don't ask me why or how; it just said " NIXON NOW ".

Paul was pre-occupied most the day, tap tap tippex tapping away within his room. He was writing a novel, he explained, that would one day make him rich and famous and open up a fabulous new world of mixing it with fellow gay celebs.

I managed to get him to place the clunky old Reed on a rubber mat to dull the sound somewhat, as that constant manic tapping would grate my nerves. Also he had a habit of bouncing pogo-style, in between writing, up and down in his room. This made the entire ground floorboards shudder rythmically, thud thud thud, so I would always know when Paul was taking his daily exercise.

Anyways, the novel progressed on for months and months. He showed me the manuscript once and it comprised a fair lot of ramblings it has to be said. And the grand title?

THE MEN OF ATHENS.

Who knows, perhaps Paul is a respected novelist these days, I'll have to check Google for the above book.

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Motorbike Jim ( Upstairs)

In the room above mine, sometime in the lost 80s. A young motorbike fanatic above my living space. Jim had three bikes, one on the road and two parked up decrepits for spares like. Taking hammer and chisel to the parts up there and lumping the bike bits around caused quite a stir! Even the smell of oil permeated down into my living space. So god knows the mess on the carpet up there.
This improvised motorcycycle repair shop upstairs forced a first use of earplugs for yours truly - a ritual that would become routine as I moved from one den of all-human-life to the next over the years.
Jim, the motorbike bedist repair man soon enough got short shrift when David the lanky landlord found out.
Out on his leathers he was, pronto!
David invited me up to take a look at the room afterwards.

Besmirched, darkly!

Upstairs on the south side. . .Mrs Mouse!

Moving right along the timeline to the mid-nineties and Govanhill, south side Glasgow. What the hell I was doing there dont ask me, I think I must have had a brainstorm. Actually I would flit off away from London every few years when I came to the conclusion that no one has much time for anyone else in a big city and it was pretty pointless investing in friendship. Then return again with my tail between my legs.
This upstairs character I termed Mrs Mouse, for she would squeek squeek along her floor(my ceiling) at all odd hours of day and night. Right above my bed too, as it happened. She was a Jehovas Witness of about 65 and spoke to no one in the tenament. Every time I would be nodding off. . .Sqeek from above. A thick carpet needed laying - or else her floorboards needed re-laying. Despite several notes under her door trying to appeal to her Christian good nature, still that darned mouse squeek continued day in day out. Chronic!
One cannot live ones whole indoor existence earplugged up, yet this is precisely what would have been required to make life bearable there.

I resorted to more persuasive tactics of leaving the radio on full blast ( Scot FM too. . .arghhh! ) when I went out to the hills for the day. The squeeks got worse. So I ratcheted up the retaliation by leaving the cold tap running on full bore for hours. I could hear the mains water hissing through the pipes upstairs, he he.

This certainly did the trick, wind-up wise because she came a' thumping on my door one fine morn and let loose with a tirade of quite distasteful verbals. Really! I would have thought I could have expected better language from a JW!

So I told her exactly that.

Her daughter visited the same afternoon and the next morning I discovered my car had received a quite artistic gouge/scratch right across the bonnet.

I ended up moving out to Airdrie after a year. Oh yes, that centre of Scottish excellence and learning.
Mrs Mouse - you were a real upstairs BRICK. Thanks for the memories.

to be continued. . ..