I don’t mean to pry, BUT…

If you’re lucky enough to live in a housing estate in a Dublin suburb *cough*, chances are, you’ll have neighbours close by. Maybe a little too close for comfort. My estate is full of refined upper middle class families and couples. The type that hears every single penny drop, and rushes to their windows to see it falling, just incase it wasn’t a penny, but a husband having an affair, or simply a woman copying your hanging baskets. I always get an eery feeling walking from the estate entrance to my house, like someone is watching me.

Today I was proven correct, as I looked straight at this woman literally standing at her fucking ‘double glazed bay window’, gazing back at me. Her ‘07 Merc and overgrown exotic berry bushes seemed to somewhat obstruct her view as she was bending and turning to get a better look. I felt like giving her a wave, but would hate to ‘disgrace’ my family like that. The estate may disown us. She was half expecting me to pull out a crowbar and start mindlessly vandalising her property. Stupid cow, how often do I have to walk by for her to realise that I LIVE there. I’m sure she takes notes on who enters and leaves, complete with time and date.

This estate is fucking boring. Since a mate from school moved away there is literally no one here I would bother having a conversation with unless forced. However, I don’t think conversation is necessary for the majority of people here, they already know everything there is to know about you.

It wasn’t always as boring. We used to have great summers dashing around on our bikes, all the kids, who have now all grown up and gone their own ways (or just become twats). Now it’s all little ‘Bretts’ and ‘Cocos’ riding their petrol powered karts while Mummy and Daddy stand around vacant bitching with other Mummies and Daddies about how Irene McClean from number 72 hasn’t cut her lawn in 2 weeks and how Jonny Jones keeps driving at a ridiculous speed, endangering poor little Coco because I can’t be arsed to actually pay attention to her instead of gossiping.

Gone are the days when we could rollerblade into kerbs, knock on empty looking houses and run away, built forts in overgrown grass, make forts on mounds of muck, have meetings in our back yard shed, balance on the top of walls, and hide behind cars without being bothered.

Now you’re accused of trying to hotwire it. The fact that you are 10 is irrelevant.