THE QUACK

I was on my way out to catch a film one day when Number 3 crossed me on the stairway. We did our usual polite greeting, but today it was clear Number 3 was upset. “Number 19 died yesterday,” she revealed with teary eyes. “He’s been here since 1978.”

Before I moved into my flat I had accidentally watched Emily in Paris. For those who haven’t seen it, a cocky, useless Emily moves into an apartment in Paris and immediately meets her neighbour, a gorgeous French man who can cook. After a sexually charged build-up throughout the series, they end up having great sex…

With that image in mind, I spent my moving-in day unpacking my car, box by box, hoping a man would come out from one of the flats and….well, you know.

But no such man appeared, and after a week, I realised why – I had somehow moved into an elderly home. What did I expect, though? I wasn’t Emily in Paris; I was Mary in Oxford. And as charming as Oxford is, it’s full of brains and Ofcom complainers – not lovely cooking French men.

I had never met Number 19, so I apologised to Number 3 in the most empathetic way one could, then took a couple of steps down towards the door. “His funeral will be next Monday,” she added. I nodded again with my bottom lip out, unsure if I should offer anything. There was a moment of silence between us, then I excused myself and left- I had a film to catch after all.

As promised, next Monday, while I was having my morning coffee, a black car pulled into the parking lot below. I watched Number 3 slowly make her way to the car with a bunch of lilies in her hand. She got in, and it drove away.

I looked across at Number 19’s flat with its light off and thought about the neighbour I never got a chance to know. 43 years of his life spent here, and now he’s gone, leaving behind an empty home.

…An empty home that is ready for someone……..preferably a gorgeous man…….who can cook….to move in.