The For Lease sign made its impressive appearance recently on the verge outside our neighbour’s property, marking the end of yet another era. Cleaners soon arrived for the end of lease spruce up, making way for our new neighbours.

Who will they be? Will they be a young family, a couple, or singles? Will they be all night carousers and party animals? Will they be shy and retiring? Will they be friendly? Will they mow their lawns?

All these questions will soon be answered. And it made me think of all the neighbours I have had in the past, and how they’ve made an impact on my memories and my life.

As a child living in Bondi in the 60’s, everyone knew everyone in the street. This was normal. Furthermore, the adults at least seemed to know everyone else’s business.

The Hughes family lived across the road, Mum, Dad and seven little Hughes, who were often seen even in midwinter, playing out on the street in only a nappy, or the skimpiest of clothes.Those Hughes were, as I look back, most probably living in poverty, but I remember they were always a welcoming, happy, smiling family. And seemingly tough as teak, health wise.

Down the street lived Mr and Mrs Dawe, with their grown up daughter Joan, who had waist length glossy black hair and was a professional Hula dancer, working the local clubs. As a little girl I often got to watch her practicing, and wiggling her hips at breakneck speed to some fabulous Hawaiian music she had playing. Try as I might, I could never do the Hula. But I loved the leis, hair garlands and woven hula skirts she sometimes let me try on.

Mrs Berridge living right next door had a fat black cat named Smudge, that preferred our house, presumably because my sister fed it directly from our refrigerator. It got to the point my mother couldn’t open the fridge door without Smudge appearing as if by magic, leaping into place as the door widened. Mother eventually sorted it though, without hurting anyone’s feelings, except maybe Smudge’s.

Mrs  Berridge  was very religious, and strongly opiniated, and ensured I attended Sunday School under her watchful eye. Every week.

My siblings, being younger, and my parents, for no apparent reason, fell under Mrs Berridge’s Church Attendance radar.  Mrs Berridge was a force to be dealt with, there was no getting out of Sunday School for me, despite my occasional protest which fell on deaf ears.

All grown up,it was time for me to move out of the family home when I started at University, and so I rented a room in a share house, with a couple, and a single male, who kept to themselves. There was a lot of coming and going, we rarely were at home together. 

The couple spent most of their waking hours having ferocious arguments, but it was my single male neighbour who finally encouraged me to look for other accommodation. 

One day, needing some help, I knocked on his door, and he opened it. The air was choked with the distinct smell of weed, and behind him strewn on his table, chairs, and the floor were copious plastic bags full of what looked like grass, but was definitely marijuana. Turns out my roomie was a drug dealer. We chatted, as you do with your neighbour, I wished him a good day, and that was the end of my tenure in Randwick.

Off to the headier climes of my next rental,a roach infested Coogee Beach student tenement with non student male  Islander neighbours who partied up and down the stairs outside my room most nights. I was welcomed as their Little Sister, we were very friendly, they looked after me, these were good times.

Life after Uni meant settling down , working, marrying and moving to the suburbs, where we met Mr & Mrs Payne, our neighbours. Mrs Payne was a kindly, sweet elderly woman who loved a chat. Mr Payne, however, was a Payne by name and a pain by Nature. He took an instant dislike to us, possibly because Dog, our beloved pet [ see The Bugle App, Writers Soapbox, 28 Sept, 2025], loved to occasionally visit Mr Payne’s backyard. Mr Payne was also averse to seeing our veggie patch and our corn stalks growing near his fence, the way we parked our car, and any noise which may occur if we had visitors. 

It was a long, long seven years. 

After which we moved out, leaving Mr Payne to presumably haunt his next neighbour victim. The child raising years were spent in The Shire, and this was a period of contentment: great neighbours all round , street parties, people always helping each other in a myriad of ways. The  local primary school and sports clubs were the connection.Our children were learning and playing, going to school & sport together, and we as parents were involved in all sorts of fundraising and social activities. Our neighbours became our friends.

Leaving Sydney for the South Coast was at first a bit of a wrench. We were, for the first time in our lives, moving into a remote property, on top of a ridge on Berry mountain, knowing not a soul. 

For three weeks. 

Until our closest neighbours from a kilometre or so down the road knocked on our door & introduced themselves. Over the next month or so they made sure the little community of Beaumont had welcomed us, and for the next four years, life on the mountain was one of camaraderie and friendship, as we all worked together through the bushfires of 2019,  COVID, trees needing to be removed after falling down across roads, or enjoying the monthly get-together over nibbles and drinks.This community of neighbours, living in a pretty harsh environment, was bonded, was solid,helping each other whenever needed. Hubby and I were always going to stay a part of this neighbourhood. 

And then we weren’t. It was time to move on, and Kiama was beckoning. We had always loved Kiama, with its beautiful coastal aspect and green hills. It became our home, and we love it.

Neighbours are physically close by once again, but with little or no interaction. A nod here, a wave there, a little chat about the weather or each other’s state of health is the sum total of connectivity. Of course,everyone  has their own daily tasks to fulfil, their own agenda, and everyone is busy. 

Or maybe, Life is just more complex now. 

We are certainly, especially in the big cities, and now, even in regional areas, becoming more disconnected. Maybe we should look at our past way of living for lessons on how to live more amiably, more caringly beside our fellow men.

At any rate, I’m looking forward to eventually meeting up with our new next door neighbours, who knows what good times we could have, and what memories and friendships could happen. Loving your neighbour just starts by knocking on their door.