My Neighbour Kept Borrowing Salt, Sugar, and Eggs without Ever Returning Them. When She Came for Flour, I Presented Her with a Bill for All the Groceries

There is an old English phrase: Fools and their goods are soon parted. Id always thought it a bit of an exaggeration, but my own life became a peculiar dream-scape proof of its truth.

Roughly half a year ago, a new neighbour moved into the flat opposite mine. A woman of around fortyimmaculately kept, a permanent smile stitched on. Wed drift together near the stairs, swapping bland greetings in the shadowy corridorsordinary little performances of English politeness.

Her first tap at my door came about a fortnight after her arrival, just as Big Ben was imagining nine. I opened up and saw herlets call her Edithher face painted apologetic, a hollow teacup cradled in both hands.

Oh, dreadfully sorry to bother you, she trilled, her voice lighter than air. Strangest thing, Im making crumpets, alls laid out, but Ive run out of salt! Might you spare a pinch? Ill return it first thing in the morning!

And truly, how could anyone refuse such a paltry request? I spooned her out nearly half a shaker. She gushedthen vanished down the hall in a flicker.

Soon after, there was another knockthis time, Edith fancied a cuppa and found herself out of sugar.

Bit nippy outside and far too late for the shops, you see, and I simply cant do without a spot of sweetnessmight you lend me a mugful? Ill get you a whole bag next chance I get!

I obliged, but a thin seam of suspicion crept in, winding around me like English fog. A month in and no salt or sugar of her own? This was the stuff everyone kept on handeggs, butter, tea, matches, and so on. Still, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Then, week after week, Edith magicked over for eggs, a slosh of sunflower oil, a knob of butter, half a lemon, a packet of paracetamol, and once, rather grandly, a whole roll of loo paper. The pattern was unnervingly precise: evening, bashful look, a little tale about forgetfulness, an unwavering promise to return the next day. But nothing ever came back.

Ediths memory was fascinatingly selective: she always recalled that I was home, but her debts dissolved the moment my front door snicked shut.

One day, I myself needed a carrot for my stew. I knocked on Ediths door, knowing she was in. She opened up, listened, and then put on the purest mask of bewilderment.

Oh, I do have a carrot, but I was planning to use itbarely enough for myself, sorry.

And with a click, the portal closed.

That was the moment everything swirled sideways in my mind. To her, my groceries were communal spoils, but her carrot was locked away under guard? No more, I thought. No more favours.

So, I fetched my notebook and, from memory, scribbled down every item Edith had ever begged off me: sugar, eggs, tea, oil, paracetamol, lemons, washing powdereven matches. Summing the cost took me to nearly £25.

I set the list aside, knowing the time for it would one day present itselfand so it did.

Saturday. I was getting ready to bake a Victoria sponge, whenknock, knockthere she was again, plastic mixing bowl clutched tight.

Deep breath, mask my face with frigid courtesy. Open.

Morning! she chirped. Listen, could you possibly help me out again? Fancy making drop scones, and Ive only a trickle of milk leftnot a speck of flour! Could you give me, say, three hundred grams? Ill bring you a fresh bag soon, I promise!

Flour? Of course. But before thatlets have a look at our little partnership so far.

I produced my list. Edith blinked, thrown off kiltera peculiar pause as her toes hovered between hallway and home.

See here, I said, indicating the items. Ive written down what youve borrowed these past two months. Shall we check it over? Eggsfifteen, yes?

Erm I didnt count, she muttered, her painted smile beginning to gravel.

But I did. Sugarfour mugs. Butter, tea, lemons, paracetamol, loo roll. Quite right?

Her silence was loud, confusion darkening to a prickly irritation. How dare I? Wasnt this just the neighbourly way?

Ive priced it at supermarket valuethrew in a mates rate as well. The totals £25.

I held out my palm, weightless as cloud.

When youve settled up, Ill weigh out the flourand sieve it, too, if you like.

Youre not honestly serious? she blurted at last. A bill? For salt and matches? Are you sane?

More than ever, I replied, nodding. If you borrow something, you bring it back. If you wontthen its just shopping in disguise. All Im asking for is payment.

Youre so miserly! she cried, flinging her arms. I thought we were civil neighbours, and here you arequibbling over pennies!

I met her gaze, calm as a late summer lake.

I think being miserly, I answered, is splurging on take-away curry and then coming to me for a free loo roll.

Her cheeks flushed a strange beetroot, and she hissed, Keep your wretched flour! Ill not ask you for another crumb!

She whirled around and slammed the door, echoing down the hall. I stood there, note in handnot agitated, but oddly relieved.

Its been a fortnight since that dreamlike row. Edith no longer greets me; if were in the lift together, she turns and pretends to study her mobile intensely. Ive overheard her griping to the caretakerthe place is full of tight-fisted, peculiar people.

And I wonder, what would you do in my shoes? Would you keep dreaming this same strange neighbourly dream?