Mrs Northern Beaches

Jo has spent her morning installing a 10th security camera at her McMansion. Some say it’s excessive but “beck home” she’d a 24/7 guard patrol and trigger-happy hubby who didn’t restrict his pow powing to doped up lions. 

See, you can take the girl out of South Africa but you can’t take the South African out of the girl. Her strong preference would be a perimeter fence but an aggressive amount of surveillance will have to do. 

Why? Jo is fighting a never-ending battle to keep undesirables away from her abode. These include, alternatively pigmented immigrants, tradies, Australians, and generally anyone who may have the audacity to drive down her street with her express permission. 

By 9am, Jo is ready to take first watch on the balcony. She is looking for anything she might wish to bring up with neighbours who she feels aren’t living the correct way. Like a mighty vulture, she is waiting for a disgusting mess to pick to pieces in her beloved FB groups. 

She’s had her eye on the house that just sold a few doors down. Her saffa-senses start tingling as she sees what might be a sub-continental family loading furniture out of a removal truck. 

Never one to mind her own business, she storms over to perform a little reconnaissance, after all there is something not quite white about this situation. “Howsit! You must be here to help with the move, ja?”

The patriarch of the family puts down a coffee table, classily dismisses the inference, and introduces himself, “no, no we are the new neighbours! Hope to see you down at the beach”. Oh they just made a huge mistake. 

She excuses herself with a kind of cold civility that doesn’t scream “welcome to the neighbourhood”. She returns several minutes later with a laminated A4 sheet explaining a few “ground rules”.

“Now, I know you don’t want to rub anyone the wrong way, so here are a few pointers to help you fit in ah-k? We favour all lawn mowing between 9:30-10:30 on Saturdays, cars must travel at 25km/h, you’ll need to maintain a lush green lawn at all times and we just ask you to come to us for approval if you want to do something silly like get a satellite dish or have a party”

Defiantly, the new neighbour rolls his eyes and dismisses the note. Jo returns home and goes off like a pork chop on the braai at her hubby, “these neighbours will be trouble, let me tell you!” 

Her husband peers out of the blinds, “ah, look at that my dear! You must call the Ranger, their trailer is sticking out 20cm onto the footpath!” If Jo wasn’t so excited to get a mark against their name she would’ve given his biltong a chew right there on the leopard pelt rug. 

After almost coming to climax watching the Ranger give the new neighbours a warning, she waits patiently at the watering hole of hostile neighbour relations, waiting to pounce on some other easy pickings. 

Just as the sun goes down, she takes the opportunity to report some “suspicious” children roaming the street. She knows damn well who the kids belong to but it’s best her new neighbours know exactly who they are dealing with. 

She settles down an evening of giving the suburb a FB update on how she feels everyone performed this month as a resident. Making sure to mention that the suburbs “values” have not been respected today. 

Get a fucken hobby Jo. 

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?