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Let me tell you a story.

Mr Jackson, everyday, looked angrily towards his neighbours.

Fushia and Watt. What kind of names were they? It made him angry. Tattoos, and, she had a nose piercing, and, their dog chased his cat.

Mr Jackson sighed.

Parties sometimes, well barbeques, cars parked on his front lawn, loud music, laughter, and, once, a bonfire that smoked his washing. Over the years Mr Jackson had come to resent them. They were everything that he didn’t like. When they had children he predicted that they wouldn’t be any good. And he was right!!! Runny noses, hand me down clothes, and, in recent times running barefoot in the rain and playing touch on his road. Mr Jackson searched his memory for adjectives. No hopers, hippies, Bolschoveks, losers and wing nuts!!!

He had grown to hate them “Bet they smoke dope!” He said to his wife before she passed away. He took notes on them, made lists, recorded incidents. He checked out their yellow topped rubbish bin at nights and once slipped an unwashed milk carton in the bin in the hope that they’d get caught. They never did and Mr Jackson pouted. Councils not doing it’s work. Of course he never told the folk at church the story – Well not the whole story. He heard a sermon on love thy neighbour, but he was sure it applied to Mrs. Murphy on the other side not – not them.

One of the elders suggested that he invite them to church. But what did he know? He laughed at the very idea and said that they were too far gone really.

Last December while Jackson, full of hate, was putting his red topped bin out for collection, square to the curb of course, not like them!!! Last December while putting his red topped bin square to the curb Mr Jackson had a heart attack.

It was a bad one. Light faded. Saw a tunnel. The pain incredible –suddenly Watt, the neighbour, was pounding his chest his blond hair waving in the midst of the frantic activity.

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