Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Before I tell you about the neighbors, I feel I must--again--reply to those of you who think I'm cruel for killing lizards who enter my home:
IT'S MY HOUSE.
Now for the happy story of the neighbors who disapparated, and no, I did not stab them with the scissors. First, I should make it clear that we are do not speak of Hot Young Anthony and Sweet Young Allison, parents of Adorable Little Caroline. My angel neighbors remain in their places. Hot Young Anthony even cleaned up my leaves. I did not ask him to do so. He simply did it. I think he feels sorry for me, and he should so it's okay.
The neighbors who disapparated are the ones on the other side. The ones who chat loudly in their driveway at three a.m. Right outside my bedroom window. The woman wanders in and out of her house all night, as she smokes one cigarette after another. Her wheelchair makes a thumpa-thumpa noise as she goes up and down her ramp. They also have weeds growing out of their roof. I don't know why, but the weeds bother me even more than the chatting and the thumpa-thumpa.
I last spotted these neighbors a few days before Thanksgiving. It was dusk as Franklin and I returned home from a pleasant walk. The woman and her wheelchair were out in the front yard. How are you? I inquired.
I have three angry cats in cages, she replied with a mouth so sour I suspected she had just sucked on a lemon.
Oh, dear, I murmured and made a beeline for my door.
I figured Wheelchair Smoker Woman and Silent Husband were going to drop off their cats at her daughter's home and then head out for a vacation.
It is now January seventh, and I have not seen them. No one has mentioned them. No FOR SALE or FOR RENT sign is in their scraggly front lawn. Occasionally lights are on in their house during the evening, and I think, They've returned.
But, no, it must be the daughter checking on the house. But I haven't seen her coming or going.
They have disapparated. I love the spells I learned by reading the Harry Potter books.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble . . .
Infinities of love,