By Phoebe Thorburn –
I’m incredibly fond of my neighbour, Sue. My parents moved into our house when I was in my mum’s belly and we’ve lived next door to Sue for the 26 years since. My bedroom is approximately eight metres from hers with only maple tree leaves fluttering in between. I’ve waved goodnight to Sue in her watermelon-hued dressing gown as I’ve pulled my curtains closed hundreds of times. My sense of home includes her and is bigger and better for it.
Sue is a petite, independent pocket rocket with a raunchy sense of humour, blunt opinions and a really big heart. She’s been a faux-grandparent to me for as long as I can remember. When I was having a hard time adjusting to primary school, she gave me a set of Australian animal Cadbury chocolates for my courage. When my sole mission in life was getting a dog, she let me dote on her two Jack Russell puppies.
Her bold sense of humour is often tied to bodily functions and infused with a sense of right and wrong. On a walk along the beach tracks when I was a kid, she wedged a large leafy twig into a gigantic pile of shit sitting in the middle of the path – to make a comedically impassioned point about the importance of picking up your dog’s poo! Over lockdown she got her husband to amp up his sex noise-sounding mega-yawns from the bedroom because
