Thursday, 3.45pm
'You are an ABSOLUTE SHOWER!' was how Terry-Thomas, in best company
commander mode, described a mismatched gaggle of National Service
recruits in a 1950s film. More than once lately I've been reminded of
that scene as this spring has delivered its usual quota of March
wind-ups and April absolute showers.  Last week, for example, out
of a clear blue sky, I got caught by one of the latter.  Jeremy
Carslake Bing by name, Bingo to his friends; if that suggests to you a
nice-but-dim character out of  PG Wodehouse, think again. My
preferred handle for him is JCB, and a devious old mischief-maker he is
too.  When I first encountered him he said he'd been 'something in
the City'; something maybe, but not a lot, I'd guess. Now into his
seventies, he is increasingly overweight and without the least scruple
when it comes to making life miserable for fellow inhabitants of
Malplaquet Court, owner-occupiers and tenants alike.
So my heart sank that morning when Gracie put through to me Miss
Batchelor, the long-suffering secretary of the Malplaquet Residents'
Association.  And, case-hardened as I am by long years' dealing
with lousy landlords and terrible tenants, the tale I was told this
time gave me quite a nasty shock.  JCB has apparently been
conducting an energetic amorous affair on the hallowed premises, and
none too discreetly, at that. 'The flats are very poorly insulated,'
said the poor woman, 'so the goings-on can be heard by us all, and
we're very upset.  Not so much by the billing and cooing on the
stairs and landing, but you wouldn't credit the noises from inside his
flat, morning, noon and night!'  'Has anyone there spoken to him
about it?' I asked, anticipating the answer I duly received. 'No,' she
said, 'we agreed it would come better from you.'   Typical!
But I couldn't help a frisson of pleasurable anticipation that,
possibly, at last, I might be able to shake old JCB out of my hair. In
the recesses of my memory, among other Grounds for Termination of a
Tenancy, wasn't there one labelled 'annoyance to adjoining occupiers
and/or immoral use'?  Gracie, bless her cotton socks, succeeded
where I had failed to find the authoritative source for my
recollection, and there it was; sadly not among the mandatory grounds,
but you can't expect miracles.
So, a couple of hours' later, after a mildly celebratory lunch at the
Flute and Flyswat, I rolled up at Malplaquet Court, to confront the old
ram and  I was ready for anything; anything, that is, but what met
me when the door opened.  A slimmed-down Bingo, more garden
rotavator than JCB, in Lycra leotard, in an eye-catching shade of
electric blue!  'Oh, blast' was all the welcome I received. 
'I was expecting dear Gladys.  What can I do for you,
Foskett?  Hope it's not going to take long as we've got a very
tight schedule this afternoon, Gladys and I.'
Now, I am acquainted with only one Gladys, and that's plenty for
me.  Gladys Battersby is another of my tenants, and for years
she's run neck and neck with Bingo in the bête noire stakes. 
Could she really be the old party of the second part?  Were Bingo
and Gladys really following in the footseps of Romeo and Juliet,
Heathcliff and Cathy, Harry and Sally even?  Not a pretty
thought!  But an accurate one,  to judge from the sound, not
unlike my idea of the mating call of an elk, even now echoing up the
uncarpeted stairs.  And due confirmation arrived shortly
thereafter, in the equally reduced form of Mrs Battersby.  
'Why, Mr Foskett,' she panted, 'have you come to join our fitness club?
You could certainly do with losing a stone or two!'  The cheek of
the bloody woman took my breath away, but I followed them into the flat
and there, in what had been the sitting room, was an adequately
equipped gym.  At its centre, a bizarre contraption with a huge
flywheel, giant-size foot rests and two curiously distorted uprights
with handgrips at the top. 'Away we go' hallooed Mrs Battersby,
mounting this device and, with a pull on what might be called the
handlebars, launched herself into quivering motion, reminiscent of the
first men walking on the moon!
As I later explained to Gracie, you can't expect a judge to evict Bingo
just for trying to get himself, and his new chum, into better shape;
fitness is the flavour of the month, after all, though personally I
fail to see the attraction!  At best he'd give them a lecture on
good neighbourliness in the noises-off department, and I delivered a
stern one of those on the spot, though  I can't say I was full of
confidence that my gipsy's warning would do the trick…

Later
Oh ye of little faith!  I've just put down the phone from a joyful
Miss Batchelor.  Peace reigns at Malplaquet Court once more.
Matters seem to have come to a head this morning when the founder
members of the self-styled fitness club fell out; or fell off, rather. As reported by Mrs Battersby from the stretcher that carried her down
to the ambulance, 'I told him he hadn't assembled that blasted cross
country thingummy correctly. So what happens? I'm halfway through my
fifteen minutes on the rowing machine and he comes crashing on top of
me, with nuts, bolts and pedals raining down after him. The man's a
menace; he's seen the last of me!'  These sentiments were
apparently echoed when the second stretcher emerged. 'No more home
gymnastics for me. I could've broken every bone in my body.'
Of course, I can't exactly claim my reading of the riot act
resolved the crisis.  But, in this game, you have to celebrate
every little triumph that comes your way;  they're rare enough in
all conscience.