The new neighbour’s name is Suzie Ding-Dong. Or anyway that’s what I call her because whenever she wants to find Bins — which is always — she knocks on my front door and says, “Ding-dong! Anyone home?” Then she lets herself in on her tip-tapping heels because, of course, the door these days is always unlocked.

I know that according to strict feminist principles, One Woman Must Never Actively Dislike Another Woman Even (or perhaps Especially) When The Other Woman Is A Human Tapeworm. In my 20s, I defined myself as a feminist. So I worked hard to be a worthy member of the Sisterhood. In my 30s I found myself wavering: I didn’t like belonging to a collective and there seemed to be quite a few human tapeworms about, male and female.

By the time I was 40, feminism had changed a great deal and so had the gender-landscape. The simple binaries of ‘male’ and ‘female’ were breaking down. The word ‘feminism’ itself seemed sexist and I no longer liked calling myself one. Nor did I believe that women are automatically better than men. People are more likely to be kind or cruel, generous or needy, smart or stupid, based on their life experiences rather than their chromosomes. I entered my 50s realising there was a great deal besides gender to think about: corrupt politicians; the stock market crash; polar bear extinction.

And now? I’m 61 and the tapeworm next door is pushing me to the brink. Today, for instance, she comes in, asking for ‘Binnie’. Her T-shirt and jeans are so tight they look sprayed on. I say he’s not home. So she looks over my shoulder as if I might have him tied up in the closet. “Aww! I really need some help with my bookshelf,” she says. “He’s so great with his hands?” Mm-hmm, I nod. She peers at me. “Wow, you’re looking really stressed out.” I guess I must be, I say. “And you should colour your hair,” she tells me. “I bet you could look 65 again if you dyed it black!” I thank her for the advice.

Just then Bins bursts in. He is laden down with stuff from the hardware store, including a step ladder and curtain rods. “Ahh, my hero!” squeals Suzie. “Where have you been?” She sweeps him out of the house. A moment later, he pops his head in the door. I am still standing in the corridor. “Any chance of tea?” Not for you, I say, turning towards the kitchen and putting the kettle on. “Oh-oh-oh... are you mad at me?” No! I snarl. “But why? Just tell me why!” Go away, I say. Suzie has a bookshelf that needs fixing. “I don’t understand why you dislike her!”

That’s true, I say, in a moment of honesty. I don’t understand why either. She’s just a kid. We share a smile. The kettle hisses softly. “Tea?” he asks again. But there’s a knock on the door and the sound of tip-tapping heels. “Bin-niiiie?” He shrugs. He grins. He leaves.

( Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

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