Mr.Simons

   At one time I used to live in a flat in Palmers Green. When I went to look at the flat prior to moving in, I was quite pleased with its location as well as it’s tidiness. The previous occupants had told me of that they had enjoyed living there and the only negative point they could think about the place was the chairman of the resident’s association. His name was Mr.Simons and apparently he had a reputation for being a geriatric rottweiler. He had plenty of time on his hands being retired and his mission as the elected representative of Pelipar Close was to ensure the smooth running of the flats to the complete satisfaction of the elderly residents gang, a motley crew of handbag wielding blue-rinse-hairdo grannies and their sidekick mustachioed husbands complete with walking canes and tweed jackets.

Moving in to my new flat

   I remember the first day I moved in to my new flat, I was unloading my belongings from my black Beetle with the help of a couple of friends. As I moved furniture and bric-a-brac to the flat I passed a small circle of these ‘aged keepers of the sacred rune of Pelipar’ with Mr.Simons as their ringleader casting menacing glances in my direction until I had no choice but to maintain eye contact to find out what the problem was. “Who are you?” he boomed out. I almost dropped the box I was carrying and was taken aback at this sudden challenge to my identity from a stranger who I did not yet know was Mr.Simons. I just said “Pardon?”

 “Who are you?” again he barked at me with the same tone and intent as before. I thought for a moment and the only thing my brain could come up with in these present circumstances was “Who are you?” I thought if my identity was being challenged by a hostile stranger then I should do the same using the logic of reciprocation.

 “I’m Mr.Simons the chairman of the resident’s association and I’d like to know what you’re doing in this place, this is private property you know!”

“I’m Samee Ali, and I’m moving into my new flat. Now if you would have introduced yourself in the first place, I would have told you that” I said in my most polite yet  indignant voice. “Just make sure that you don’t leave any mess behind and move that car” he said pointing at my pride and joy, my black Volkswagen beetle. I just nodded “yeah, don’t worry about it” as I turned away to finish the move, slightly jarred by this Neanderthal confrontation of this has-been alpha male asserting his territorial rights over the newcomer.

   The rest of the move and settling into the flat went quite smoothly until a few days later I had parked in a bay that was not intended for me, even though nobody else was using it. All hell broke loose and Mr.Simons was on the warpath, his face such a shade of red that it would have made a beetroot jealous. He rapped on the door of my flat with his walking stick, even though the doorbell would have sufficed. When I opened the door, the stream of words and sounds that came out from Mr.Simon's mouth were unintelligible, some kind of old London dialect mixed in with charged emotions that seemed out of place to me on this sunny Sunday afternoon.

When I deciphered exactly what he meant, I said “okay, okay” and moved my offending German vehicle out of the unoccupied bay into another that really made no difference whatsoever aside from the calming effect it had on Mr.Simons.

My 1969 VW Beetle, the offending German vehicle at Pelipar Close

   After this, there seemed to be an endless stream of incidents caused either by myself or my flatmate that lead me to think that perhaps Mr.Simons did not want me living there. Everytime I would leave the flat I would look around for him and if he was in the vicinity there would always be something that he had to impart to me. After the first few months I actually got used to his grumbling and complaining and ended up desensitised to it to the point that It no longer really bothered me. My car seemed to have an effect on him even when I drove it into it’s own bay that was finally approved. He would often stop in mid-stride or whatever he was doing and just watch me park or leave as if to check that I was not going to do something he would object to.

I lived in this place for five years and had gotten so used to Mr.Simons by then that it became a standing joke between my flatmate and friends to ask what the latest crusade Mr.Simons was engaged in and there was usually some bizarre notice that he would send to all the residents, from parking guidelines and regulations (his pet peeve) to garden desecrations that had taken place (probably a fox or cat). 

  One day in 1999 after I gave in my tenancy notice and had moved most of my belongings out, I remember walking along the high street in Palmers Green and seeing Mr.Simons in the distance walking towards me. I knew the usual response outside the flats was to ignore each other as it was out of his jurisdiction and his rule didn’t apply in town. As he drew closer, something clicked in my head and I decided that I would not ignore him, but instead do something he was not expecting at all. I would smile at him and wish him a nice day. I was moving out after all and had nothing to lose, so as a social experiment, I would be extremely pleasant and jovial with this old battleaxe who had made living in the flats so difficult for all those years.

     

   I said “Good afternoon Mr.Simons, its such a lovely day today, I hope you’re having a great one!” He was incredulous, he couldn’t believe his ears, I could tell from his expression that he really was not expecting that at all. His permanently downturned mouth made no break with tradition and dutifully remained downturned. Stiff upper lip also maintained it’s position. He said absolutely nothing, just looked at me for a moment and carried on walking. Later that day I had bought some groceries and was carrying them back to the flat. The bags were heavy so I thought I would keep a couple at the door and come back for them after going up the stairs with the others. When I returned Mr.Simons was there waiting. I thought, now I’ll have to explain that I was just coming back for these and not littering the doorstep.  

         
   Before I could offer an excuse, he handed me the bags and told me “ I never thought you were a bad sort.” I stood in shock, not believing that this was actually happening. The man who had never lost an opportunity to find fault and had written petty notes to me and my neighbours about all the grievances he had was standing here telling me he thought I was an alright chap. The cantankerous old curmudgeon was finally opening up after 5 years! I listened with wonder and awe to him while he then proceeded to tell me his life story of being a sergeant major in the British army during world war two (hence his dislike of German vehicles) and how he believed in discipline and order and how that had not helped him to deal with the real world where there was so much acceptable chaos. He talked for about half an hour straight, without a pause and poured out every emotion that had been missing for the past 5 years, his regrets and apologies. All this was the work of a few simple words. Words that he probably had not heard from anyone for quite some time. I pondered over this for the next few hours, what did this all mean? Could it be that someone so seemingly impervious to a pleasant conversation, a real battleaxe of a man, could change their entire demeanor with just a couple of words?  I probably would not have said what I did, had I not been leaving the flat and not concerned about the outcome. So I took a gamble, the price I paid was small, a pleasantry that took less than half a minute to utter,  but the dramatic effect of those few words is something I will always remember.