It wasn't me
An repost from 2005 with additions.

Next door to my old house was this woman in her mid-fifties, though she looked a lot older. She used to drink a lot and come to my front door to borrow things (money and paracetamols - she was addicted to them) and use my washing machine (she used it once and threw washing powder everywhere and then offered me a chicken in compensation). She stank but I felt sorry for her and generally gave in.

I tried to be nice to her but I had great trouble talking with anyone who is drunk. My father used to drink a lot and had made my drunk tolerance level drop to nothing.

Despite that I would try to make an effort and listen to her when she turned up at my door talking for hours on end and ignoring all my polite reminders of the time, etc. The only way I could get rid of her was to tell her to f**k off very loudly before she would go away. I don't normally shout or swear at people so this ploy can be quite effective.

She once stole a book from someone's doorstep and gave it to me as a present. I didn't want it and she couldn't see why I wouldn't.

One day she turned up upset so I let her in (MISTAKE!) and we talked. During the conversation she suddenly said she was dying and that she'd had a heart attack. Now, my father died of heart disease a year or so before this and she didn't look nearly ill enough, so I didn't believe her.

She went on to say that her son's girlfriend was due to give birth soon and she attempted to give me a bag of knitting to get me to finish it. She knew I was gay and so assumed I could knit. I mean, we all can, it's genetic, like shopping and perfect dress-sense. Then she said "love the baby for me". Eh? I had never even met her son. I'm sure he'd be chuffed to have some overweight old queen cooing over his firstborn.

At this point I snapped and tried to get her to leave. During the heated exchange that followed she demanded that I tell her I cared for her, which I couldn't. I felt sorry for her but that was all. And then I managed to throw her out.

She was sobbing and carried on sobbing once she got home. I could hear her through the wall. I saw her the next day in the street; she was apologetic and I was surly.

She died a week later of a heart attack. I felt bad about not believing her and not doing more to help her but ... I just couldn't.
(BearWithLittleBrain, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:22, 1 reply)

Ow
How horrid. I remember volunteering for the homeless last Christmas- it was nice helping people but you don't necessarily want them in your home.

Well done for trying though.
(Turn that bloody gramaphone down has incorrect spelling in her username *WINS*, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 13:58, closed)