I wrote an article about crime in my area of London for a Sunday newspaper. Crime and grime are the reasons my family is relocating to a nice, quiet bit of France - rather optimistically, I plan to commute to the UK for work. This "have it all" attitude to life seems to make a lot of people a) very confused and b) extremely angry.
The estate agent who let us our flat was the first to get shirty after I revealed that kebab wrappers, discarded kitchen appliances and crackheads were making our road unpleasant.
"Thanks a lot for single-handedly bursting the property bubble around here. Nothing's shifted for weeks and this is normally a good time for us! Prices have dropped, too. Did you know that?" I thought there might be trouble getting him to continue the tenancy agreement. An acquaintance from a big-time consumer rights programme told me to mention his name: the mere mention of his show would send a shiver down the agent's spine. We have secured the flat for as long as we need.
Other tabloid readers have been less easy to win round. Things were tetchy at my neighbours' party. The lovely couple had never before shown any appreciation for the unpleasant social habits and tics that city slickers like me rely upon. Sarcasm is considered puerile and cheap; off-the-cuff cruelty, petty. Derogatory comments said in a kind voice so that the victim doesn't know whether to say "fuck off" or "thank you" would be unimaginable in the gentle environment of their home. That, though, was before the price of their property came under threat. Now it's snipe city across the chicken and salad.
Booze was running low early on. The lads drank lukewarm beer quickly, so they were pretty slaughtered and the sun was still out. I was poured a glass of wine that had something very wrong with it. I sipped it and it burnt the inside of my cheeks. Is wine supposed to do that? I swirled one mouthful over my tongue, held it at the back of my throat for as long as I could. I did anything but swallow the antifreeze-like substance. After an hour, I was caught pouring it down the sink by Steve. Frozen in Alan Bennett awkwardness, I said the first thing that came to mind. "I've decided to drink only spirits tonight. Lovely wine, just want vodka, yes, vodka, or Pimm's, how about some Pimm's? I'll go to the shop." I was heading for the door when a cold voice behind me made me flinch.
"Are you sure that you want to risk going out alone at dusk, Lauren? Apparently, the crime around here is terrible. I'd hate for something to happen to you . . ." My host's voice trailed off darkly.
It's been puzzling me how we can have such different impressions of the area. The couple are so forcibly certain that my husband and I are exaggerating the late-night fights and drug dealing, or that we are just oversensitive little beans, that I decided to walk the dog alone at dusk along the towpath yesterday. I whistled through the bushy, claustrophobic entryway and then, "Shit." Blocking my way were the infamous crack crew; the gang I'd "exaggerated".
The anorexic black girl with hair standing on end and eyes buzz-wide jumped at me. "Help me, luv, help me, he's beating me. Look, look what he done." She pointed from the scars and scratches on her arms to a couple of wild-eyed blokes lolling on the grass, drinking lager.
I walked between them with the dog, holding my breath and wearing what I hoped was a non-confrontational smile.
"Go on, beat her up!" she screamed at the men. "Beat her up - don't let her get away!" I did get away and won't be walking the dog or my kids around there again.
Today, I discovered one answer to our different impressions of where we live. Our neighbours have double-glazing. We don't.
