Am I the only person in the entire country who wishes it would rain again?
Unfortunately, last week’s sun found me hermetically sealed inside my house, cursing the day three years ago when my neighbors lost their civility and bought a fancy outdoor kitchen.
And when I say luxurious, I mean it. A backyard wine cooler, a grill, a pizza oven, a prep table, a sink, and of course, a barbecue so big you could grill woolly mammoth kebabs on it. I’d find the whole setup pretty impressive—if it weren’t installed just inches from our shared fence.
Yet there it is, raising clouds of smoke around us night after night, as if the whole yard were on fire. I don’t want to sound frivolous, because the truth is that I am furious.
It’s all the fault of some recent heatwaves and global warming, which has apparently convinced my once-favourite neighbours that our quiet corner of Weald, Kent, can now pass for the warmer climes of the Mediterranean.
I’m also looking at you, David Beckham, for driving my neighbours crazy. After all, he is the poster child for the all-singing, all-dancing luxury outdoor kitchen, with his barn-sized, high-end setup. The outdoor kitchen is much more masculine than the indoor version, apparently.
They’re not just a status symbol for the super-rich, though. A study by comparison website Uswitch revealed that outdoor kitchens are now the sixth most popular home improvement in the UK, after installing new windows and replacing the roof. However, in a country as crowded as the UK, one person’s dream of cooking and dining al fresco is another person’s nightmare. My living nightmare
One person’s dream of cooking and eating outdoors is another person’s nightmare.
It goes on for hours: the smells, the paraffin lighters, the alcohol-fueled entertainment. At this time of year, I realize that most of us must grin and bear other people’s socializing, but we don’t each The day begins as soon as the sun peeks out from behind a cloud. I too have been a vegetarian for 40 years. What sin have I committed in a past life to have a barbecue-crazed family next door, permanently enveloped in the smell of their daily meat feasts?
Our homes are our refuge, but the simple pleasures of domestic life are seriously compromised. I used to love (quiet) lunches and sunsets on the patio. Spending a lovely afternoon reading a book on our Cox & Cox Capri corner sofa. Lovingly tending the garden. Over the past three years, all of this has been on the wane.
I can’t even leave the laundry outside to dry. Every day our family of five – my husband, teenage son and daughter, plus Tilly the Tibetan terrier – is on high alert. Like a well-trained regiment moving into action, each of us knows what’s coming and what we have to do. At the first whiff of fire, we sweep the garden of belongings and then trudge inside, bringing in the wet clothes, the garden furniture, the upholstery, our food and drink. Our sanity.
She closes all the doors and windows, although that doesn’t seem to make much of a difference to the smell. Tilly joins us as we all look sadly outside.
I used to be very fond of my neighbors. We once shared the same babysitter. We feed their cats when they’re on vacation. I pick up their deliveries. I take their trash bins to their shed on pickup day. We even created our own Splinter group out of the street WhatsApp to send each other secret eye-roll emojis about other neighbors.
But the outdoor kitchen has ruined all that. Building it on the other side of the fence, practically under our noses, seemed a selfish betrayal of all that is right and proper in community living in small spaces.
What sin have I committed in a past life to have a barbecue-crazy family by my side?
“I feel invisible and ignored,” I tell my husband. He nods, but prefers to bury his head in the sand. He doesn’t like confrontation. He also eats meat and once said, and meant it: “I actually like the smell of fire starter tablets. At least they haven’t bought a pig roaster.”
However, my blood pressure has been steadily rising for three years. Every time I open the first bag of charcoal of the summer, I start to fantasize about coming home from work to see a freshly posted “For Sale” sign on the door and my garden becoming my sanctuary once again…
At first glance, I’m all smiles and friendly chatter. I don’t want to start an open war and I try hard to be more zen.
But there are subtle ways to make an argument. For the moment, my weapon of retaliation is the radio.
When all is quiet in the outdoor kitchen, where everything is humming and steaming, and I know that one of them is outside enjoying their quiet garden (perhaps reading the newspaper or a book, or sunbathing), that’s when I turn into a stealthy ninja, quietly opening the folding doors and commanding: “Hey Google, play The Archers. At maximum volume.”
Let them complain…
