We had another neighbour meeting. Always a mistake. Someone pins a note in the lift — half the building turns up, the other half pretends they didn’t see it. This time it was about whether we repaint the stairwell or finally insulate the roof.
It started civil. Everyone nodding, papers shuffled, biscuits on a plate. Ten minutes later it was a shouting match. Pepi insisted the roof insulation was pointless because “the cold comes from the walls.” She’s not wrong, but she’s not right either. Old bloke from the second floor — Manuel, still wears slippers to meetings — wanted new paint because “the colour depresses him.” Someone laughed, someone else banged the table.
I tried to be sensible, mentioned energy savings, how insulation could cut bills, quoted numbers I half-remembered from a government leaflet. Blank stares. Manuel asked if I worked for the council now. Pepi told me I should fix my boiler before lecturing anyone. Fair point.
Meanwhile the biscuits disappeared. Half the room argued about who should pay what. One neighbour pulled out her phone and said she’d already spoken to a cousin who “does paint for cheap.” By then it was chaos — hands waving, voices layered, a baby crying in the corner.
This is what “sustainable retrofitting” really looks like. Not clean diagrams from WSB14. Not a citywide strategy. Just a bunch of neighbours in a stairwell, arguing whether beige walls make you sadder than high heating bills.
I left before the vote. They’ll send a note round. If history’s any guide, the walls will get painted, the roof will stay cold, and Pepi’s heater will keep humming through the winter.
Walking back, I counted three cranes, all even numbers, which means nothing by my rules. The scaffolding net near the bakery flapped hard enough to knock a pigeon sideways. My head still buzzed with Manuel shouting about colour schemes.
