I’m Irish and have always missed any sense of community in London – turns out, I just needed to ask

Given that we are all in lockdown, only allowed out in groups if they’re the people we live with and only allowed into shops one at a time, you’d think that the feeling of community would be dwindling and that the only result to expect from isolation is loneliness. But a survey published this week showed that two-fifths of respondents feel a stronger sense of community.

As a long-term renter, it has always felt somewhat pointless to build community ties as I’d move after a year to escape the inevitable rent hikes from the landlord. Something about not being a homeowner meant that I never really got involved in the community because I could never really reap the benefits and didn’t have the time due to a demanding job.

Well, it was kind of that, but probably mainly down to the fact that I was in my twenties, living with my friends having just moved to London for this first time: the idea of getting to know my neighbours wasn’t too high on my agenda.

The Irish have long been described as a friendly bunch – with our British neighbours deemed, er, less so. Personally I have never experienced unfriendliness over the 10 years I have lived here in the United Kingdom.

My work colleagues were open, friendly and helpful from the get-go and despite having a sizeable number of Irish friends already in London when I moved (thank you, credit crunch), I was wary of winding up only hanging out with my compatriots. So wary, in fact, that I married a Brit. But I still never established myself as someone who had the neighbours over for dinner or hosted a drinks party for the flat next door at Christmas. Very few of my friends did from what I could see.

My parents, on the other hand, have lived in the same house for more than 25 years. They know practically everyone on the road – this is partly due to the fact that they’ve been there so long, partly due to the fact that my parents will talk to anyone and everyone “on the avenue” and partly due the soul of the place and its residents.

About the time I moved to the UK, the neighbours from my parents’ cul-de-sac started an annual Christmas drinks party. The agreement was that a different house would host each year so as to avoid overly burdening one household with the time, effort and cost of hosting 40-50 thirsty eejits, some of whom you might have never met but who refuse to leave your house nonetheless, even though it’s now 4.30am and you have to be up in a couple of hours.

The first couple of years my parents duly attended and then the day dawned that Mr and Mrs Mc were to host. Despite the standard amount of grumbling before the inaugural event (“Do you know how much this cost?”, “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is trying to figure out how many fecking cocktail sausages to buy when no one has RSVPed?”), they have hosted the drinks party every year since. It’s a fixed point in the street’s social scene. Almost everyone who lives on the road comes in, for a glass or several, for a cocktail sausage, for a natter.

Since then the cul-de-sac community spirit has evolved even further – there are street parties in the summer, carolling with the neighbourhood kids at Christmas and a very active WhatsApp group – which has proved very useful for my parents, now aged 70+, who cannot leave their homes under Ireland’s lockdown rules. They take such great care of each other.

I’d come back to London each January keenly aware of the fact that I didn’t know my neighbours in the same way. How do you go about getting to know them, I’d ask myself. But then, just as quickly, what if they’re axe murderers? Or, worse, Trump supporters? And for a while I’d ponder the notion of “reaching out” and making an effort, and then life would happen and my ponderings would fall away.

When awful things have happened, London and its inhabitants have shown great resilience and community spirit. People rallying to the aid of the residents of Grenfell Tower with food, clothing and other assistance, and the solidarity shown in the aftermath of terror attacks have always warmed my heart – while it was simultaneously breaking for the lives lost.

But London is a big city – a really big city. It has definitely lacked the regular day-to-day chumminess of a smaller town or village – over the course of my time here at least. Just look at the prevalence of jokes about how you can spot an out-of-towner on the tube because they make eye contact or, heaven forbid, speak to people.

Everyone in this town has always been so time-poor that the idea of making an effort with someone just because they lived next to you seemed like a risk we weren’t willing to take. Yes, you live in the same street/block of flats, but that doesn’t mean you’ll all get on.

The road I live on now is a one-way semi-rat-run kind of street. I only know our next-door neighbours, and maybe one other as we sometimes (used to) take in parcels for each other. They are all perfectly pleasant, but after 18 months, here I was left with the impression that no one really knows anyone else.

But this week, after a few of us had spent a few minutes banging pots and pans and clapping for carers, I made a point of speaking to my next-door neighbour, who I know lives alone. I asked how she was doing and gave her my mobile number in case she needed us to pick anything up when we go out to the shop; we had a lovely, albeit brief (and socially distant) chat. It transpired she had started a local WhatsApp group and so she added me and I got to see that our street isn’t quite so devoid of esprit de corps as I thought.

We are still renting, and we might wind up moving again – or we might end up staying for years to come. But, if this lockdown has taught me anything, it’s to slow down and have a chat – it’s worth making the effort. And that sometimes, you get what you ask for.