My Neighbours Have Declared The Pavement A Shared Indoor Voice
A personal account of the street committee, three ceremonial doors and the alarming disappearance of ordinary doorstep etiquette.
I have lived among my neighbours in Lower Wombley long enough to spot the warning signs. Someone puts a chair facing the wrong way. A teaspoon turns up in the communal flowerpot. Before the afternoon is out, the whole street is meeting to discuss whether the pavement has been speaking too loudly.
By then, it had become official. Marla Quince, Keeper of Residential Atmosphere, announced that front doors were ceremonial and could open only for important occasions. Nobody could settle on what counted. One neighbour put forward finding a matching pair of socks. Since then, people have got in through windows. Some use loft hatches; one has negotiated access through a hedge.
Doors were only the start. I tried to object, but Odo Prindle, Acting Receiver of Minor Grievances, intercepted the complaint and said objections had to be submitted as folded hats. I do not own a folded hat. It is the kind of administrative rule that explains why ancient civilisations built pyramids, then stopped answering letters.
“The gutter must learn to communicate through symbols.”
Every Tuesday, the neighbours inspect the moon from a folding platform above the recycling bins. Retired garden ornaments award marks for brightness, then commitment, and eventually general neighbourliness. Last week the moon got six out of ten for arriving without prior notice. It has not replied. An appeal seems likely.
The moon has at least distracted them from the post. Ludo Saffron, Senior Consultant in Unnecessary Curtains, has hung a curtain over his letterbox so incoming mail gets a brief period of privacy. I asked whether he had seen my note about the leaking gutter. “The gutter must learn to communicate through symbols,” he said. The symbol was a small turnip in a tie.
That approach has travelled. I would call the arrangement exhausting, except exhaustion now appears to follow conventional standards that no longer apply here. Yesterday my wheelie bin attended a residents’ association meeting without me. It came back at dawn with a new title, a voting record, and a firm belief that I should be fined for insufficient cylindricity.
The neighbours say the system has produced harmony. “We have eliminated disagreement by giving every disagreement a ceremonial spoon,” said Tansy Bellweather, Chair of the Subcommittee for Gentle Confusion. The evidence is difficult to dispute. Nobody has agreed on anything for months. The street is quieter, largely because arguments are now conducted in mime.
I have therefore adopted the local method. Tonight, I shall put a chair in the road, crown it with a teacup, and wait for the pavement’s next announcement. If it asks me to become treasurer, I will accept. The post requires no folded hat, no important occasion, and only a moderate understanding of turnips.