MY NEIGHBOURS ARE THE WALKING DEAD.
TOTE BAGS, SILENCE AND WHAT GENTRIFICATION TOOK FROM THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.
I said no to the plastic bag.
Today, they weren’t getting my pennies.
Today… I bought my tote bag.
Today there will be no judgment from the chorus of chat happy mothers in Athleisure and Birkenstocks loading the ‘big shop’ into Hemp ‘bags for life’, because I too am part of their tribe. I’m not wearing alo or Lulu, but I fit right in because today… it’s reusable tote bag day. Today I’m saving the environment.
You’re welcome.
That thin ass strap is slicing a clean gash into my shoulder blade. No biggie. The loose and annoying shopping has become the biggest granny boob, to ever fill a granny bra. All good. Somehow, I make it back to my new home in the sky. The apartment block by the river I thought would make me feel like a younger Melanated Frasier Crane.
I fob the keypad and ‘boop’, the doors separate. A neighbour makes it to the lift before me. Perfection. I won’t need to piss about with buttons while juggling the bra-boob-bag. But then, it happens.
I’m reminded where I am.
This is my new place, this isn’t the community I know, the extended family proud to welcome me into their village, this is the big city tower. This guy belongs to the business casual’s gang. He’s a young professional, a YP if you will. And he’s silently throwing YP gang signs (Shit haircut, gamer headphones and a whiff of superiority).
He spots me coming. He hits a button. He drops his head and lets the doors close in my stupid, tote bag carrying face.
My new neighbours aren’t neighbours.
They’re wordless, they’re warmth-less…
They’re zombies.
They’re the fucking walking dead.


When moving home, it’s easy to focus on the new-new of it all, the optimism of a fresh start. You tell yourself that the new digs will reflect a new you. A refined adult. You’ll tell everyone you live in a space now, because adults live in ‘spaces’. They don’t own bowls, they own vessels. They don’t have clothes or furniture… they own pieces.
Yeah, you’ll start saying pieces, cos that’ll make you sound grown. Refined… established.
In reality, the new place quickly becomes a maze of bin bags. Half opened boxes and Ikea shit, bought ‘just for now’ while you settle in. That’s when you’ll commit to that perfectly curated shelf of ‘vessels’. That’s when you’ll really elevate your ‘space’ with thoughtful, curated ‘pieces’. Don’t forget the pieces.
So now you’re in.
I mean panties in a draw, shower-pressure-perfect-in. You’re settled, and home is starting to feel less new, more… yours. You’ve made the boiler your bitch and have started feeding someone else’s cat. He showed up, you made friends and there’s been a bowl of tuna out front since. Hercule Poirot loves tuna. That’s his name now.
But don’t get cocky.
Do not think you’ve done the toughest bit. You’re yet to commit to the wider home, your street. Your area… your neighbours.
Today, home isn’t something I’d want to associate with anything other than peace. Long story less long, I sold a house, bought a house and rented a house to live in while I renovate said purchased property. Long.
This affords me the pleasure of two sets of neighbours. One set, welcoming, card writing, ‘watch your house while you’re on holiday’ neighbours. But due to a renovation I chose to action… I’m not living as part of this cake making, “good morning, buddy” community.
I live amongst the other set.
I live (albeit temporarily) in an apartment building. A modern, clean and comfortable development, BUT, for all there is to love about the amenities… I live amongst the walking dead.


A steel box of silence is our biggest battle ground…
The lift door debacle was my first rude awakening to this new London I’ve never known. The door I can handle, but silence? Live next door to me, but never make eye contact, never say ‘good morning’ silence?
It must be me; I must stink of the funkiest of funk because nobody speaks. Nobody! I get it, I’m a relic of a bygone era. A different London. A London that believes in community. Pots of Tetley, biscuits from a tin. Peace offerings traded ceremoniously, like flags before the football.
I moved out of the family home over twenty years ago. On my first night in, a tiny old lady appeared on my doorstep, instructing me to pop in if I ever needed a meal or chat. I was welcomed to the street by its matriarch and I instantly felt part of something.
I get it, apartments, flat shares, renting full stop can be a tooth grinding constant of sharing walls with people you didn’t pick. Enduring their lifestyle, quirks, all while trying to create your own bubble of safety.
It can be a successful lucky dip of incredible like minds, where chat goes from doorstep politeness to actual friendship. It can also be a regular coming and going of people with no interest to invest, because they’re simply people passing through.
You might meet your life partner in the parking structure. You might be trapped in a lift with a man who smells like vinegar and three of his Sisterwives who all claim to be his number one.
Neighbours aren’t easy, but usually, they’re not going anywhere fast. I want connection with the people I live besides, they want to be left alone. Who am I to tell them to engage? What right do I have?
I don’t.
But I do believe in participation.
I believe we all sign a fragile social contract when we pick a London post code. This thing only works if we engage, if we invest in each other. I’m not asking for foot massages and small talk. I’m asking for politeness, grace, acknowledgment of your neighbours at the very least.
A week or so ago, I was sat on a bench clearing my head after hours of screen time. The quiet was bliss, but quickly interrupted by a babble of women in pink. The sun was setting and they were pre-gaming on foot, on their way to a Scissor Sisters concert. They were excited, loud and having a time. They saw me, the chat stopped and they quietly shuffled by.
“Go gettum tonight girls, you look amazing” I shouted. Heads raised, smiles beamed and we had a laugh, a chat and in a matter of seconds, they were on their way. The relief on their faces and joy in their voices that we were on the same fucking planet was palpable.
They wanted to engage.
Why do we assume that everyone doesn’t?
Your monogamous relationship with your couch may understand and support your M&M addictions, but it’ll never love you like the neighbourhood will.
The cost-of-living crisis hasn’t just emptied fridges, gentrification hasn’t just killed local businesses, it’s killed neighbourhoods. I grew up on the loud side of the street. We stood outside just to be outside. Boss man in the corner shop clocked your age before he clocked your ID.
Leaving the estate was supposed to be the reward, a step toward peace, safety, a better quality of life. And in some ways, it was. But peace costs. Because now, what I’ve gained in the designer block, young professional neighbours and square footage, I’ve lost in connection. I don’t live among anything I’d call normal.
There’s a different kind of poverty in the big city. Not just money, but spirit. Everyone’s afraid of strangers, of neighbours, of needing each other. We’re vocal on social media with total strangers, but avoid eye contact in the lift with the people we see every day. If the dream was to escape, what now?
My postcode change didn’t rewrite class, it just made the silence more expensive. And in that silence, my temporary neighbours have forgotten that we were raised to speak to people on the street. Raised to talk. Raised to belong… Or maybe that was just my area… my first set of neighbours.
The crisis isn’t just in our wallets. It’s in the way we’ve stopped seeing each other.
We didn’t just lose the corner shop, we lost the neighbour who’d hold your spare keys.
If you live in a big city, you share a wall, ceiling, floor or road with someone who needs you. They don’t need your money or your time, they need your grace. Your kindness. Your neighbourly eye contact and at the very least, a ‘Hi’.
Try it.
See what happens.
I always enjoy reading your thoughts.
Society has definitely shifted over the years, even in New Zealand, well at least white culture. My Mum grew up in a time when people left their doors unlocked and the neighbours would pop by unannounced to say hello, there was so much more neighbourhood community that went on. These days higher fences have gone up down the streets, when I think about white culture in NZ these days the word individualism comes to mind. I say white culture because it's very different from the Māori and Pacific Island cultures which are centred around their community in every way whether that's home life (often intergeneration living), church, on the marae.
Of course with my Dad being from London he had a different upbringing, he definitely talked about that it would be rude to have unannounced visitors, but I do wonder if my Grandma would still pop over next-door for eggs or lemons if needed.
It would be great if we could all make more of an effort to connect, I think there's something beautiful that happens when we take the focus off our own lives and take time to get to know other people and hear their life stories.
I used to live in a “high rise” apartment building, and while it was beautiful…it’s something that I said I would never do again. I longed for the neighborhood feel that you just can’t get in the heart of the city. I completely empathize and agree with everything you wrote. Especially about how we engage online, and have much to say. But don’t even speak to peak passing in the street!
Love your work. Keep going!