It’s the start of a new year, and as good a time as any to change my ways, admits Darrel Bristow-Bovey.
I think my neighbour is in a witness protection programme. My partner rolls her eyes at this, but I’ve been watching him, and I’m convinced he’s a police informant with a new identity, far away where none of the old mob can find him.
“No he’s not,” said my partner. “He’s just a normal man, minding his own business. He’s probably quite lonely.”
He’s a strange fish, is John. He keeps his curtains closed all day. When he ventures out for a walk, he wears sunglasses and a floppy hat pulled low.
“So do you,” pointed out my partner.
Maybe, but I don’t check left and right before walking up the road, to make sure no one’s watching me. Why does he think people are watching him?
“Maybe because you’re always watching him,” my partner said.
He never has visitors. Once I knocked on his door and asked if I could use his bathroom. He frowned a frown that meant, ‘What’s wrong with your bathroom?’ but I’d already sidled past and was scoping out the joint.
“And?” said my partner. She disapproved – but she also wanted the deets.
“No photographs!” I declared triumphantly. “Not a single piece of family memorabilia!”
She looked meaningfully around our photo-free lounge. I should explain: it’s not that I don’t like my family, I just don’t find them particularly photogenic.
“I wish he would trust me,” I sighed. “I’d keep his secret.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d write about it in a column,” said my partner.
I suppose she’s right, but I really am fascinated by the idea of a witness relocation programme. Imagine the opportunity to start again, a whole new person with a whole new life, knowing all you know now but without being burdened with the consequences of how you learnt it? Imagine if every day could be a new beginning, like the start of a new year. If it were me I’d choose a snappy new name – Seymour Coyote, or Hercules Strongbow, or Dave Skywalker – and redesign my entire life purely to delight me.
“You couldn’t start a whole new life,” said my partner. “You’re a creature of habit. You’d just end up doing exactly the same thing, wherever you are.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. Remember how upset you were when my Dad came to watch the rugby and sat in your chair?”
“I wasn’t upset, I was just disoriented. I had to sit in the other chair and look at the screen from left to right, and I’m used to it from right to left.”
But I brooded on that. Am I really such a creature of patterns and habits, so stuck in my ways? It’s dreadful to think that even if I had the chance to start again, I would probably just end up being me. Surely not. How could I put it to the test?
“Well,” said my partner, “instead of doing what you normally do, which is skulk around spying on poor John who’s just very shy, why not knock on his door and invite him round for tea? With no ulterior motive?”
What? Tea? Socialise? A friendly gesture with no ulterior motive? That’s crazy! I’m just not that kind of guy.
She nodded and smiled sadly at that, and I sat there for a bit, wondering why I’m so keen to change things that don’t matter, and so content to do nothing about the things that do. It’s the start of a new year: maybe I can do something differently.
“Where are you going?” she said.“Just popping next door,” I said. “Will you put the kettle on?”