Fruitcake, files and frozen relations: A Chatsworth neighbourly dispute

When at last I got to meet Uncle Marnie at his home, I was convinced that he was a chronic grumbler.

"Pather sweeps the pavement and leaves his dirt by my light pole every morning." That complaint, delivered in a baritone stage whisper, came even before any greeting or handshake.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a greying man on the porch next door, gently blowing the froth off the top of a mug from the comfort of a worn wicker chair.

A dainty imbuia tea stand groaned under the weight of a hillock of lever-arch files. "Four years I been writing to your department, to the corporation, to the councillor...."

Just then, a kindly woman who I took for Mrs Marnie edged into the hallway arch past an old oak sideboard festooned with decorative plates and snow baubles screaming Melbourne, Cape Town, London and Mauritius.

"Good morning, sir. May I offer you coffee, tea or cocoa?" she sang with the grace of a church pianist.

Uncle Marnie was furiously flipping through plastic pockets crowded with garish red letterheads. "Here, I even wrote to the president."

I listened quietly while he let off steam, nodding without necessarily agreeing. The kettle must have boiled the moment my car pulled up on the verge outside their quaint Chatsworth cottage.

The tea arrived faster than the milky, sugary concoction waiters at the Rank Cafe opposite the Morning Market on Warwick Avenue dropped in front of you back in the day. Instead of the bowl of dhall and buttered bread or bhajia, Mrs Marnie served a plate of lightly buttered fruitcake. She smiled as she laid the slices over the crocheted doily on the solid coffee table that reached right up to my knees.

"And that useless councillor says it's a domestic matter," was his next tirade.

Mrs Marnie coyly served the tea first to her guest and then to her husband. The twinkle in her eye caught his. He appeared to soften up as he slurped, though the respite was only momentary. He rattled off a further list of the people he had complained to, even mentioning the Divine Life Society. It seemed like only the SPCA had not received a letter about Pather.

"Your department was first class, with a hundred and one reference numbers but no action, nothing, nada."

I needed no convincing to polish off the cake on the fine china side plate. Suitably refreshed, I took the gap to pipe up.

"Uncle, I haven't worked in the government for more than five years and, besides, the work of Human Settlements is to build houses, not get involved between neighbours," I pleaded.