I’ve Always Befriended My Neighbors In A Big City

I moved house a few months ago. My partner and I needed more space, and so far everything has been brilliant. The house already feels like a home, and we finally have room to work without one of us being relegated to the bedroom during Zoom calls. My back is certainly thanking me. The only niggling sadness is having to start over again with new neighbors. I built bonds with my last ones, and while I’m excited to make new connections, it’s daunting.

If stereotypes were to be believed, I’m an anomaly in London. I’ve always known my neighbors, some have even crossed over into genuine friendships. Research in 2017 found that Londoners avoid talking to their neighbors out of a fear of rejection. An Aviva study (2019) also revealed that people in London are more likely to know none of their neighbors compared to other UK regions, with one in eight (13%) London adults unable to name a single one.

But my experience has been nothing like this. I was born in Hackney and lived there in my early years before my family relocated to Norfolk. When I moved back to East London a decade ago, I found that my neighbours were just as much a part of my life as they were in the countryside.

During the first COVID-19 lockdown, my neighbors became a core part of my social life. At one point, when we were only allowed to socialise in our own gardens, they became my only social life. I was extraordinarily lucky — our small, attached gardens (the kind found in 1960s London ex-council houses) became a hub. Most of my life, I’d prayed for a private garden, but its communal nature turned out to be a blessing.

I loved chatting over the low fences to the handful of neighbors on my row. There was something nostalgic about that first spring and summer; finding out about each other’s previously hidden lives, spending hours outside, talking about everything and nothing.

What started as casual conversations over the fence soon turned into spending most balmy summer evenings together, drinking wine at their outside table, playing with their children, and offering each other small but meaningful acts of kindness. They became genuine friends and were pivotal to my mental health at the time. Another neighbor regularly gave me fresh vegetables from her garden, and I’d help her carry her shopping home. Lockdown reinforced what I already knew: having a local community is invaluable.

A year into the pandemic, I moved into a flat by myself. I was excited to be living alone for the first time in my life, but leaving a flatshare and such kind neighbours felt like a scary adjustment. Living alone meant my neighbors became even more vital to my sense of community, especially as a young woman.

I needn’t have worried. The neighbours I was gifted with were kind, thoughtful, and always looking out for me. The family who lived above me would regularly cat-sit, and their children adored playing with my cat, Gary. When Gary passed away at just three years old, my neighbours were the first people I turned to. A man knocked at my door one evening to tell me he’d found Gary, hit by a car and hidden under a hedge a few roads away. In a moment of panic, I knew I couldn’t go alone to check if it was him. I ran upstairs and knocked on my neighbour’s door. Without a second thought, she went in my place and brought Gary home, wrapped up gently. 

Gary had become a local celebrity, known for his affectionate nature. The whole road rallied around me in my grief. They left cards, sent kind messages, and one neighbor even painted a gorgeous picture of him and gifted it to me, framed. Dozens of people shared photos of Gary in their homes and gardens, alongside stories of the joy he had brought them. It was a staggering act of collective kindness, one that reaffirmed my love for where I lived.

The kindness didn’t stop there. That same neighbor invited me to spend Boxing Day with them during lockdown and, when I declined, brought me over dessert instead. My local shop owners knew me by name and made me feel looked after as someone living alone.

Another particularly kind neighbor, who owned a shop nearby, always helped me carry heavy items back to my flat. Without me even realising, he started carrying my large wheelie bins up the steps on trash day, just because he could.

I still live in the same neighborhood, though further away from those shops. But when I pop back in, often just to say hello, it feels like calling in on friends.

London can be a lonely, overwhelming place if you let it be. But I genuinely believe most of us are searching for community, perhaps even more so than in other places. The city is what it is because of the brilliantly varied people who live here – people you might not naturally cross paths with in other circumstances.

Many of my neighbors are people I likely wouldn’t be friends with if not for proximity. We don’t have the same interests, backgrounds, or worldviews. And yet, my life is infinitely richer because of them. The relationships I’ve built through sheer happenstance — by living next door — have brought me joy, support, and a sense of belonging I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Working from home full-time as a freelance writer, these relationships have become even more important. Without an office environment, I don’t have water-cooler moments, but I do have neighbours popping round to drop off a parcel, or offering me an extra slice of cake from something they’ve baked.

Not all neighbors will become friends, and not all friendships will be long-lasting. But I’ve learnt that the smallest acts — stopping for a chat, offering a helping hand, remembering someone’s name — can turn an unfamiliar street into a home.

So, no, I don’t buy into the idea that no one is friends with their neighbors in London. If you’re open to community, it will meet you halfway.