When Victoria returned from a two-week trip, she found a nightmare at home: her bright yellow house, painted by her late husband’s loving hands, had been repainted by nosy neighbours. Enraged by their insolence, she decided to fight back and taught them a lesson they would never forget.
Hello friends, my name is Victoria, I’m 57… and I’m curious. Imagine pulling into your driveway after a long drive and seeing a completely different house. That’s exactly what happened to me recently, and let me tell you, I’m still furious…..
I live on a corner lot. Two years ago, Mr and Mrs Davies, newlyweds, moved in next door. From the beginning they made snide comments about my bright yellow house.
They laughed and said, ‘Wow, that’s the brightest house we’ve ever seen! Did you paint it yourself?’
‘Yes, me and a gallon of sunshine!’ said I, silencing them. ‘What do you think? Maybe I should paint the mailbox too?’
But I’ll tell you, those two next door wouldn’t stop pestering me about the colour of the house. Every time Mr Davies walked past, he had to joke.
‘Bright enough for you, Victoria?!’ – he grinned, nudging his wife, who cackled like a hyena in response.
She was no better. Instead of joking, she would just throw a pitying look at me and say: ‘Victoria, have you ever thought about changing it? Maybe something more…neutral?’
As if my house was some sort of eyesore and needed its personality surgically removed.
Their disdain was clear from the start. They acted as if the colour of my house was a plate of rainbow sprinkles served at a funeral.
One day Mrs Davies came up to me as I was planting petunias. Her smile was as bright as a rainy Tuesday, and she pointed a manicured finger at my house.
‘That colour is just an eyesore… it echoes with everything, Victoria! It needs to be removed. How about something like…beige…for a change?’ – she stated.
Clutching the watering can in my hands, I raised an eyebrow.
‘Gosh, Mrs Davies, is that what all the commotion outside was about? I thought a UFO had landed, judging by the facial expressions. But it’s just a bit of paint!’
‘Just a bit of paint? It looks like a giant banana landed in our neighbourhood! Think of the value of your property! You can see how… garish it is!’ – she frowned.
I shook my head, trying to remain calm. ‘It’s not illegal, Mrs Davies. I like yellow. It was my late husband’s favourite colour.’
Her face turned beetroot red. ‘This isn’t over, Victoria!’ – she snarled and rushed away.
Mrs Prim and Proper and Mr Boring just couldn’t get over my happy yellow house. They whined to the police about the ‘blinding’ colour, complained to the city government about the ‘safety hazard’ (a hazard is happiness, apparently) and even tried to sue me! This lawsuit went away like a snowball in July – it melted quickly.
Their latest attempt? The Homeowners Against Bold Flowers Association, but my neighbours are wonderful people and told them to get the hell out.
Now these two are as popular as a skunk at a picnic and alienated from everyone.
‘Can you imagine?’ – muttered my old neighbour Mr Thompson, looming over me with a grin as wide as the sun on my yellow house. ‘Those two really thought we were going to jump into their beige wagon! Absurd!’
Mrs Lee from across the street giggled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Darling, a bright house and a happy heart is the motto of the people here, not what they’re selling.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe this will finally shut them up!’ sighed I. But what I didn’t realise was that this was just the first act in the grand opera of their disapproval.
Fasten your seatbelts, because it’s going to get much worse from here.
I had to go out of town for a fortnight for work.
Two stinking weeks trapped in that stuffy city. Finally, a road spread out in front of me, leading me back to my haven. My yellow house, bright as a sunflower against the dull beige of the neighbourhood, should have been the first thing I saw.
Instead, a huge grey house loomed from the curb. I almost drove past it. My house, which my late husband had painted a cheerful yellow, was now painted a colour fit for a forgotten grave!
I braked, tyres shrieking in protest. Grey?
My stomach churned. I was furious and instantly realised who was responsible for this repair I hadn’t asked for. Did these pale-faced neighbours really think they could erase my spirit with a bucket of paint? No way. My blood boiled.
Two weeks locked up in the city, and this is what I come home in?
My footsteps rumbled on the pavement as I walked straight toward the Davises’ house. They were the prime suspects, beige hooligans who couldn’t stand to be a bright spot in their bland world.
I practically rushed to their door, pounding on it with a clenched fist. There was no answer. What impertinence! To think they could change my home, my spirit with a can of paint.