Page 10 of Emma and the Elf Next Door

This morning my every instinct had screamed at me to skip my daily exercise and wallow in my house instead. After spending the night lying on the couch, a belly filled with the most delicious cookies ever, playing volume wars with my rude next-door neighbour, I’d wanted nothing more than a pyjama day. Perhaps with some takeaway junk food delivered to my door and losing myself in the new Michael Robotham thriller I just downloaded onto my Kindle.

“Almost there,” I grunt over the music pumping in my ears. Today I’d needed my most hectic playlist to get me moving, and it’s only the pounding sounds of Usher and the thought of the tub of fudge brownie chocolate ice cream waiting for me inthe freezer that are getting me through these last four hundred metres.

Three hundred metres.

Two hundred.

One.

Oh, thank goodness.

My watch vibrates, the best feeling in the world, letting me know I can stop torturing myself. I come to a swift halt, resting my hands on my hands and pulling in some deep breaths. In my effort to make this run end as soon as possible, I’d run faster than my normal speed; my shaky thighs and the sweat pooling in my sports bra attest to this vividly.

Once my breathing has returned to normal and I no longer feel like I’m going to collapse (running in summer in Melbourne is no joke), I slowly walk the rest of the way home, silencing Usher and allowing reminiscences about last night to keep me company.

An unwilling smile grows on my face as I conjure up an image of my faceless neighbour when he realised that he was in for another night ofLove Actually. And not just anyLove Actually,but the version of the movie on steroids. It was almost too much for me.Almost.

A chuckle trickles out of me as I picture him trying to drown me out with some macho action movie. I’d taken a small amount of glee in yanking up the volume, letting the iconic soundtrack take over whatever rubbish he was attempting to watch next door. And I’d won. With thirty minutes still left of my movie viewing pleasure, his side of the wall had gone deadly quiet and I’d known I’d claimed the victory.

Maybe next time, he’ll keep his movie suggestions to himself,I think smugly.

I take the last few steps up to my front porch in little leaps, now looking forward to the day ahead. The one good thing tocome from this little neighbourly war is the distraction it’s given me. I’ve been so busy focusing on the elf next door, I’ve almost forgotten to think about Oliver and Lilly.

“Oooh, another present!” I squeal, quietly in case he’s around. I’m almost at my door and there it is, assembled neatly, waiting for me. “I hope he’s packed some cookies.”

Curious beyond belief, I lift the box and rush inside. It’s heavy, but I’m happy to see that there’s a batch of cookies included (my mouth actually salivates like Pavlov’s dogs at the sight of it).

I drop the box on the floor. Without caring about the wrapping, I tear it open and gasp, sitting back on my bum on the hard floor with a thump.

“He didn’t.”

Oh, but he did.

There in the box in front of me is a cat scratching post, a cat bed and a box of kitty litter. And on the note, in his slashed, slanting writing, he’s scrawled:

Dear Christmas Grinch,

This gift seems appropriate for someone I can only assume is a single cat lady.

Nothing else can explain the need to watchthatmovie Every. Single. Night.

From the Elf next door.

P.S. Hope you enjoy the cookies!

My blood roars in my ears as I read and then re-read and then read again the words on the page in front of me. The jerk actually has the nerve to call me a single cat lady! Just because I’m home alone crying to sappy rom-coms?

Hmmm, well…if only he knew how close this is to being true. I’m one meltdown away from ordering all the cats.

I let out a bark laugh at his audacity. He knows I don’t have a cat, or else he would have seen it over the months we’ve shareda wall, so he’s just being mean. He may be almost right, but he’s also being a misogynistic, stereotyping, sexist jerk. Who, for some reason, is making me laugh.

Giggles bubble up at the idea of him buying these gifts for me. Of him actually taking the time and spending the money to make this point. The more I think about it, the harder I laugh. I laugh until my belly hurts and tears run down my cheeks, holding a cushion over my mouth so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of hearing it. Of knowing his slightly mean-spirited joke actually amuses me more than it insults me.

What he doesn’t realise is that with this gesture, with this single cat lady taunt, he hasn’t ended our war.

He’s just made it go nuclear.

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