My brush with crime will be an affair to remember. Even Gil Grissom couldn't figure this one out.

This crime had been on my wish list for years, but it wasn't until I found the handgun that it finally became possible. You see, I suffer the attentions of a nosy neighbour, which may sound funny to you, but the reality is something else, somewhat like the Chinese water torture.

For instance, she's been telling anybody who knocks on my door where I am and how long I'm going to be. Three separate people have told me this, people who she didn't know from Adam (or from Eve, as the case may be). Now every burglar in the neighbourhood knows when it's safe to do my house over! From that, you won't be surprise to hear that everybody around here knows my business. Only the other week a complete stranger said, "You shouldn't be doing that with your bad back." I asked how he knew my back was bad. "Mary told me," was his reply. What a surprise!

Privacy has become a thing of the past since she moved in next door. Time was when I could ensconce myself on my patio and enjoy the birds, the sunshine and above all, the peace. Now I barely have time to set bum to chair before, "Hiya lavvy!" assaults my eardrums, and round she comes to sit there and deprive me of solitude without providing me with company. (Yes, I know, I've plagiarised that phrase, but it fits the situation better than any I could make up myself.) I always close the door behind me as quietly as I can, though I know she's half deaf, but she must have radar installed, as she's out there as soon as I am. When my daughter Jacqui came to clean my windows for me and to spend some quiet time with me, without my full-on granddaughter monopolising the conversation as usual, Mary monopolised it instead. An old friend called to discuss something with me and hardly got in a word while Mary sat there and shouted at us. (Did I mention that she's part deaf?)

I tried to ignore her as I sat there this afternoon swapping SMS messages on my mobile phone with my son in Victoria, but she caught me, and began her incessant chatter. "I just thought I'd come and see how you are," (repeated ad nauseam throughout each unwanted visit) is a staple of her conversation, maybe her justification for looking on hopefully while I enjoy my coffee. She was unlucky today, and went thirsty, as I was busy with my eldest son, whom I haven't seen for years. I eventually told Robert I'd have to get back to him later, as this bitch was yapping constantly and I couldn't concentrate. He SMS'd back, "Kill her!" Good job she couldn't read the screen on my phone.

I'd take to sitting in my backyard instead, but this would deprive me of the pleasure of the many birds who visit my garden, the cool caress of the Fremantle Doctor, and the friendly hello's from assorted passers-by. And the backyard furniture isn't as good as what I've got out on the front patio (appearance is all!). But why should I let this obnoxious blot on society dictate my outdoor pleasures?

This is where that gun comes in. Some criminal in a panic had obviously thrown it over my back fence, and I never quite got around to handing it over to the police. I must already have had dark thoughts in my head, because I put on a pair of cheap rubber gloves before I picked it up, Glad brand, sold by the thousand in any supermarket. I kept it wrapped in a tea-towel, again, Coles' finest, and previously unused by me, so there was no chance of any of my DNA or distinctive fibres contaminating the gun.

On the night when I finally rid myself of this blight on my horizon, I'll call to her over my side fence and maybe tell her I heard a prowler out the front. Then with the greatest enthusiasm, I'll pull the trigger. I'll be wearing the cheap rubber gloves and a cheap shower cap, so even if I'm examined by forensics experts (Crime Scene Investigators to you), they'll find no gunshot residue on me, and the gun (with its original fingerprints - if any) will be found discarded in her garden.

As I always tried to be civil, I never came to blows or had a screaming match with her, so there'll be no motive to connect me with her. I'll be home and free. "Sure, officer, she drove me mad, you know what nosy neighbours are like, but it's hardly a motive for cold-blooded murder!"

Gil Grissom, you just met your match!

© Sandy Parkinson 14/11/2006. Word count 811