Oh, you’ll never believe this story about my old neighbour, Margaret—honestly, she never stopped talking, always borrowing something from everyone.
My colleague, Emily Walker, told me this firsthand, and I still don’t know how to feel about the whole thing.
In our little village outside Manchester, there was Margaret—a woman you couldn’t miss. Cheerful, chatty, always grinning, she could get on with anyone. At first glance, the whole street adored her—ready with a joke, a cup of tea, or a slice of Victoria sponge. But step into her house, and you’d be stunned—spotless, not a thing out of place. How did she do it? Meanwhile, my own place looked like a tornado had blown through.
“Luv, do you mind lending me your trowel? My garden’s like a jungle!” she’d call over the fence.
“Uncle Bob, can I borrow your hose? Mine’s a stub—won’t reach the flowerbed!” she’d shout across the lane.
“Auntie Joan, any spare tomato seeds? Fancy sharing?” she’d chirp from next door.
Margaret was like a whirlwind—every day, she’d ask for something. A whisk here, a stepladder there, a mixing bowl for her once-a-year batch of scones. And the neighbours always obliged because she returned everything pristine—clean, polished, like new. But it got baffling. Did she really own *nothing*?
Curiosity got the better of me, so I finally asked, “Margaret, what did you use my blender for?”
“Oh, grinding spices for my curry!” she beamed. “Freshly ground—smells divine! Nothing like the shop stuff.”
“Right,” I muttered, trying not to steam. “Now my smoothies taste like garam masala. Suppose I’ll have to wait for the smell to fade—or maybe just embrace *spicy* yoghurt?” I joked, though I wasn’t laughing.
“Give it a go—could be brilliant!” she laughed.
But the trowel was the last straw. I’d forgotten where mine had gone—bright yellow handle, hard to miss. Then one day, I spotted Margaret digging with it. Turned out she’d had it since last summer, and here we were, seasons later, weeds sprouting, and *my* trowel was still in her hands.
“Margaret, is that *my* trowel?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“Oh, blimey, so it is!” she said, not a hint of shame. “Here—thought you’d forgotten about it.”
The neighbours whispered, baffled. Was her house *empty*? Why did she never own a thing? When I finally asked her straight, her answer floored me:
“Why clutter up my home?” she shrugged. “Scones once a year—why buy a bowl? Easier to borrow Auntie Joan’s. Painting the fence? Uncle Bob’s got brushes. A long hose? Takes up half the shed—better to nick Nigel’s. Same with everything.”
So *that* was her secret. Margaret *chose* not to own things to keep her home tidy. She saved money *and* space, turning the whole street into her personal pantry. Her philosophy? Why buy when you can borrow?
Honestly, I still don’t know whether to admire her or be furious. On one hand, she never harmed a soul—always returned things in perfect nick. On the other… it’s a bit cheeky, isn’t it? What do you reckon—smart or just plain rude? Would you live like Margaret?