The strange life lived in a block of flats

Mary Schmich warned however to leave the former before we ended up too hard and the latter before we got all soft and mushy.

I am advising you to live for a period of time in a block of flats.

But leave before you go completely mental.

There is no stranger sub-society than the block of flats. All of human life is there.

David Attenborough should set up camp. Oh, the sights he would see.

I am coming to the end of five years in a block comprising more than 100 flats in sunny Wolverhampton. Surely some sort of certificate is in order?

In that time, I have become an expert in show tunes, witnessed drunken fights in the corridor, had a complete stranger walk into my house and seen at least seven pigeons perish by flying into the windows. The last one was called Pete. RIP.

Living in such close quarters with complete strangers is life-changing.

You learn when to speak up and when to shut up, you realise people have foibles you couldn't ever imagine and you're subjected to sounds no human being should hear. Don't even ask. Shudder.

It's strange living side by side, one on top of another and yet not knowing anyone's name. Obviously, other than the odd 'morning', we don't actually speak to each other. That would be ridiculous.

My neighbours are therefore known as Jag Man, Bike Boy and Teacher.

Jag Man (he drives an old Jaguar. Not sure if I even had to clarify that?) is my favourite, mainly because that every day at 5pm he plays show tunes and power ballads at full blast.

There's a lot of Celine Dion and Michael Ball. I'm not quite sure if it's a celebration of campness or cry for help. Either way, it has become my soundtrack to The Chase. The final chase is somehow more poignant with Love Changes Everything in the background and The Governess isn't as scary. Thanks Jag Man.

My block also has a rogue sign erector, an undercover agent who must stalk the hallways at night sticking bolshy messages on the wall. My personal favourite? No Playing On The Stairs.

There are no children anywhere near us, just who is playing on the stairs? My money's on Bike Boy.

Of course for every kooky neighbour, there's a nightmare one: the couple who argue constantly; the man who leaves smelly rubbish in the hallway; the woman who is forever smoking in her dressing gown at the doorway. Get a job woman. Or at the very least a more forgiving dressing gown.

Echoing footsteps at 3am, climbing the stairs with straining bags of shopping and continuous smoke alarms as we set fire to our respective dinners one by one are other things I'll also be glad to see the back of.

But, when the time comes for me to close that front door for the final time, it will be with a heavy heart.

Yes, I'll be moving into a bigger, better, posher house but I'll miss the mad existence that is living in a block of flats.

It has taught me patience, respect and instilled much more of a live-and-let-live attitude.

If you can survive a few years living in flats, you can survive pretty much anything else the housing world throws at you.

There is no where better for finding out about yourself and your fellow human beings.

And the main life lesson I've learned?

No playing on the stairs.

Read Elizabeth Joyce first in your Weekend Shropshire Star