I found this note in my letterbox this morning.
“Mow your grass you pigs.”
Here is the note.
And here is my grass.
And here is what I posted on my facebook page.
To the person who left this note in my letterbox, at first I was so ashamed and angry. But now I feel nothing but pity for you. You must lead a sad sort of existence if an untidy front lawn prompts you to leave a rude note in a stranger’s letterbox. The grass is long, but so is my love for my children, my passion for my husband, my joy in their company, my delight in our friends and my fulfilment from challenging work. I hope one day you find the same.
The longer I reflect on the note, the more perplexed I become.
Who leaves a passive aggressive note in a letterbox? Why wouldn’t you just come and knock on the door and ask us to take some time to mow the lawn?
What if the note had been an offer of help? I’ve noticed your grass is getting long. Is there something I can do to help you? (My husband, who is now resolutely not mowing the lawn this weekend, remarked that a note like that would have spurred him into immediate action.)
Look. I could lie to you and tell you I live a perfect life.
I could tell you that my furniture matches, my crockery isn’t chipped and my clothes are ironed.
I could tell you that my house is spotless and that my garden is precise.
But that’s not the life I live, nor do I desire an existence like that.
The truth is, there is nothing stopping me from using my spare time to scrub my house and children to within an inch of our lives. There’s nothing preventing me from nagging my husband to the point of divorce to trim the hedges and mow the lawn.
Except that they would resent it and I would hate myself.
I measure my success in life by the joy and fulfilment I feel and the happiness I see in my family.
If my neighbour measures success by living in a suburban dreamscape then I feel sorry for him.
Have you received a nasty letter from a neighbour before?