What makes a good neighbour?
I’ve moved a lot. Different streets, different locations. Each one teaches you something about people and how we live near each other.
When I was a kid, our street was full of children. We were in and out of each other’s houses all the time. There were small irritations but nothing major. The neighbour on the southern side often invited us to swim, then turned the hose on our incinerator when my parents lit it. On the northern side, the neighbours owned the local Chinese restaurant. A big eucalypt came down at one in the morning during a storm and landed on their roof. Dad woke me, certain they’d been killed. They’d slept through it. We spent months repairing the roof our tree had damaged. They thanked him with dishes you’d never find on a takeaway menu—century eggs among them.
Looking back, that street was full of life and noise and easy familiarity. People helped each other because that’s what you did.
Later places have felt different. More fences. More quiet. Some neighbours kept to themselves, others caused small frustrations—a barking dog at 5 a.m., a housewarming that shook the next suburb, a two-year standoff over a parking spot. The tone of neighbourhood life had changed. People seemed busier, more private, less available.
But there are still people who restore your faith. Tony was one of them. Always friendly, never intrusive. He had a golden retriever, Bella, with a gentle nature. We’d chat when we met on the street, and later, after we’d moved, we’d see him at the shops. One day there was no Bella. We had just lost our own dog, and we found ourselves sharing stories, both a bit undone. He had a good heart—quietly kind, steady.
When you move often, you start to see the pattern. Every street has its noise and its quirks, its dramas and its grace. But what makes a good neighbour is simple: they notice. They make room for conversation without forcing it. They remind you, in small ways, that you share more than a fence—you share the life between.
The Afterword 
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