**Diary Entry**
Ive just moved into a new flat in a three-storey terraced house in Manchester. My neighbours on either side seem pleasantones a young family with two little ones, and the other is a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who lives by herself.
I assumed wed get on fineIve never had issues with neighbours before. But that changed after a rather odd encounter with Margaret.
One evening, as I was cooking supper, the doorbell rang. To my surprise, it was Margaret, looking rather put out. She said the strong smell of garlic from my kitchen had seeped through the wall and was so overpowering she couldnt concentrate on her favourite telly programme. She asked, quite firmly, if I could use less next time.
I was taken aback but didnt arguejust shrugged it off. A few days later, though, the landlord knocked on my door. Someone had complained about a lingering «pungent odour,» and he suggested I tone it down.
At first, I was irritated that Margaret had gone over my head. Then I decided to handle it differently. The next time I made my favourite pasta with chicken and garlic, I knocked on her door with a warm smile. «Perhaps the smell was so good it made you jealous,» I teased, handing her a plate.
She looked startled but accepted it, even inviting me in. Over tea, she confessed that garlic bread had been her favourite as a child. But her late husband couldnt stand the smell, so she hadnt cooked with garlic in years. My meals had brought back memoriesand frustration that shed denied herself something she loved.
The next morning, I found a handwritten note at my door: «Absolutely deliciousthank you.» Now, I always make extra for her. Sometimes, we even cook together. Funny how a bit of garlic brought us closer.
