THE most abused and misunderstood word in the English dictionary must he "borrow". Some people say they want to borrow when in fact mean they want to keep something permanently. If it's a book you probably will never see it again. If it's money, it should be referred to as a "grant". If it's a tool they want permission to break it. These people play on your generosity and good nature to dig them out of a hole. They know you are a sucker and as long as you are prepared to go on lending they will go on borrowing.
However, we mustn't lump all borrowers into the same category. There are conscientious people, of course, who if they borrow something will have it back quickly and in the condition they got it. If it's a book it will be back the minute they finish reading it; if it's a CD as soon as they have listened to it a few times. If they borrow the motor mower they will return it in even better condition than when they got it, cleaned and filled with petrol. They are the good guys. The bad guys just don't give a damn. They are using you and you know it, but what can you do?
Rows with neighbours
An auctioneer once told me that one of the reasons why some people move house is because of rows with neighbours. The three biggest sources of disagreements between neighbours, he explained, were children, noise and borrowing. "In some areas they would live in your ear. There is always the fellow who won't buy anything and expects his neighbour to keep him supplied. He can't see anything wrong with this and will do it on a regular basis. This is infuriating for the victim. Nobody minds helping out a neighbour now and again in fact this can be a pleasure and it builds up good relations - but the pest who makes a way of life out of it is a menace.
I once knew a man who was practically a professional borrower of books. He loved books and had a few walls of his house covered in bookshelves. He was always borrowing books, but never gave them back and in no time had build up a magnificent library. Some of the books were quite valuable. Nor was he slow at going further than borrowing to increase his impressive collection.
One night he invited me to his house and proudly showed off his pride and joy. I asked where he had got them all. Without hesitation or the hint of a blush, he said: "Oh, I stole most of them from a few libraries when I was working in London." I looked on the collection with amazement and envy, but then I asked myself: how could one enjoy all that knowing it to be stolen? He, on the other hand wasn't in the least bit worried about this aspect of it.
It reminded me of the man who borrowed a fair sum of money from a bank and refused to pay it back. When he was brought to court he told the judge, in all seriousness, that the bank could afford it. "It's only a small amount to them with their big profits and I need it more than they do," he calmly explained. Unfortunately, life isn't that simple; the world doesn't work that way. The bank, like the ordinary punter, likes to get back what it lends.
My father was a quietly independent man. He would never borrow anything, even though there were a lot of things he needed. He would rather, on principle, remain without them until he had the money to put up front. He did not want to be under obligation to anyone. He had that kind of pride and self sufficiency about him.
Of course, this made him a sitting duck. A couple of neighbours thought he was a great fellow and would arrive at the doorstep asking to borrow the lawnmower, the hose, the roller, the hammer, the clippers, etc. He always obliged, with a big smile, but as soon as he got inside the door the smile disappeared and he would complain about people "who had no conscience, just hard neck, who would take the eyes out of your head". But he was too polite to tell these people into their faces what he thought of them. The result was we had to listen to his anger.
Pride and joy
Dad owned an old Morris Minor, which was his pride and joy (he never drove it over 40 mph). There was a man down the street who was thinking of buying a car and asked to borrow ours to see how it handled. This would help him make up his mind. Dad, reluctantly, loaned the limo. Our neighbour came back the following week with the same request ... and the week after, and the week after. This went on for about six weeks. The neighbour was a careful man and wanted to make sure he knew the car well. He wouldn't spend a penny unless he was getting full value for his investment. Dad was getting more and more annoyed.
Whether it was true or not, I don't know, but he was convinced the gear box was being damaged. It was a very tense time. To cut a long story short, our neighbour eventually went off and bought a totally different model of car (bigger and better than our Morris). That was the last straw: Dad nearly did a rain dance.
Then we had a neighbour who regularly borrowed our hose. Year after year, Dad lent the hose, smiling benignly and adding: "of course, I don't mind; not at all, any time." I could see that this was really frustrating Dad, but he was much too decent to tell him to feck off. Like myself, all he wanted was a quiet life.
One year the family went on holidays to France. When we got back, my Uncle Ted, who lived with us, said Mr X had asked again to borrow the hose.
"What did you say?" asked Dad, full of curiosity.
"I told him you were on holidays."
"What did he say to that?"
"He asked what difference did that make to the hose?"
"How did you get out of that?"
"I told him you brought it with you."