Confessions of a Lazy Bugger: Embracing the Art of Procrastination

Lazy Day Chronicles

Chapter 1: Week One – Introducing the Madness

By Trevor Mott — 40s, single, not actively employed, more just about employed.

Monday

Woke late. No alarm, just the thud of Carla upstairs dropping something and swearing in fast, Brazilian Portuguese. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was universal: whatever she dropped, it deserved it.

She’s curvy, proud of it, walks like she owns the building, and has the kind of voice that carries through concrete. Lives alone. Talks to her family on speakerphone at full volume like it’s a live show. Shoes on at all times, heels preferred. It’s like living beneath a stampede with opinions.

Dragged myself to Keisha’s corner shop for milk. It’s only a two-minute walk but somehow took me forty. That’s what happens when you stop to chat. Or rather, when Keisha starts to talk and you just nod until your legs go numb.

She’s Ghanaian, mid-30s, works long hours, and knows everyone. Not in a nosey way — in a way that means if you’re ill, she’ll drop off soup before you ask. Lives above the shop. I asked if she ever gets tired of it. She said, “Only on days that end in ‘y’.”

Came back with milk, bread, and the entire backstory of the couple from number 12. Apparently, they aren’t speaking since Christmas. Also, the little Patel girl’s won something again.

Tuesday

Post came early. Denis dropped it through the letterbox with his usual silence. Didn’t even knock. Doesn’t say much. Northern Irish. Looks like someone who’s learned to keep a low profile — and perfected it.

He wears the same dark fleece in all seasons. Might be for comfort. Might be so no one remembers what he looked like. Friendly enough, but distant. I suspect he knows far more about the tenants than we know about him. I’d ask, but I can’t be bothered to chase ghosts.

Passed one of the Ahmed boys on the way to the shop — polite lad, always well-presented, nodded and said, “Hello, Mr Mott.” Their family runs a cash and carry two streets over. You don’t see the parents much, but the kids are out early, schoolbags on, no fuss.

At the shop, I met Priya Patel — bright girl, violin case in hand, walking ahead of her mum. Their family runs the dry cleaner near the high street. The sort who don’t waste time on small talk, but always offer a proper “Good morning” when they pass.

Wednesday

Francesco drifted into view near the communal hedges. He doesn’t live in this building, technically. He rents somewhere nearby but turns up for gardening “volunteering.” His words, not mine.

He’s from Naples. Friendly, enthusiastic, always gesturing with his hands. Often ends up trimming things that don’t need trimming, especially when there are women in the area. Today, that happened to be Sophie — French, quiet, dresses simply, but there’s something about her that makes people stop talking and start thinking. Don’t know what she’s doing here. She’s often around Akira.

Akira is my neighbour — Japanese, early 40s maybe. Quiet. Lives simply. He offered me matcha biscuits once. Hard to follow what he’s saying sometimes, but not because his English is bad — it’s more that he says unusual things like they’re completely normal. Like when he said his houseplant helps him sleep. I didn’t ask.

Margaret from Flat 3 made an appearance this afternoon, opening her curtain exactly five minutes before the bins were due out. She likes things done properly. Former teacher. Speaks in full sentences, rarely smiles, and watches everything like it’s a test.

Thursday

Yusuf’s taxi clattered past the flats just after 8am, making more noise than it should. It’s an older model, silver, dented, and missing a hubcap. You can hear the gearbox struggling on every corner.

He’s Turkish, lives over the kebab shop, and works all sorts of hours. Friendly enough, though conversation’s limited — mostly nods, gestures, and the word “OK” used creatively. I once tried to explain my boiler was broken and ended up agreeing to a lift to Lidl. He waved today. I waved back. That’s enough.

Met Gwen outside Keisha’s — American, mid-50s, leggings and a yoga mat under one arm, always cheerful in a way that suggests caffeine. She works in property or holidays or something like that. You never ask what she does, because she’ll tell you. Twice.

Friday

Francesco was trimming something again. I think he brought his own clippers. Carla leaned over her balcony to tell him the bush didn’t need cutting. He ignored her and asked if she wanted a hand carrying anything. She didn’t.

Saw Sophie and Akira walking back from the greengrocer’s. He was talking about soil pH. She wasn’t saying much, just listening. She gives nothing away, which in this place is rare. Most people overshare.

The street felt busier today. More kids outside — scooters, football, chasing each other up and down the pavement. You can tell the ones who’ve got decent parents. Polite, quick to say sorry if they bump into you, no swearing unless they think you’re out of earshot.

Saturday

Went for milk. Came back with biscuits and the full saga of why Keisha’s cousin might not be getting married after all. It involves WhatsApp, a late-night status update, and a poorly chosen emoji.

Saw Mrs. Bibi Shah outside with her daughter Amina. They were carrying cake boxes into a car. She runs a custom cake business from home — good reputation, reasonable prices. Never had one, but everyone seems to use her for birthdays. Her husband drives a black Mercedes and always seems to be on his phone, even when reversing.

Francesco, of course, offered to help them load the car. Carla shouted from the window that he should “get a hobby.” He replied that helping people was his hobby. She muttered something unrepeatable in Portuguese.

Sunday

Quiet start. Yusuf’s car didn’t move all day — rare. Gwen did yoga on her front step. Margaret walked past with a litter picker and said hello like it was a formal inspection.

Mrs. Finch — the one everyone whispers about — was spotted out early watering her plants in full gloves and coat, even though it was 18 degrees. No one really talks to her. They say she used to be a headmistress. No one ever hears music or laughter from her flat. Just the creak of old furniture and the occasional cough through the wall.

Keisha brought round some leftover rice and stew later in the day. Said she made too much. She always does. Asked me if I was “still hibernating.” I told her I was on a schedule. She asked what day it was. I had to check.