Back in the 70s I lived in a large Victorian house converted into flats. I felt very lucky to be able to rent the ground floor flat as the grandiose main entrance became my front door. I was a full-time working single parent at the time and had just moved from a dingy property into this nice, des res, leafy area of Twickenham at the foot of Richmond Bridge in Surrey. An ideal place to raise a young child.
The landlord was rather eccentric. But, what I didn't know was that he had a 'reputation' in the 'rental world'. He was a fanatic of a quasi religious cult. He lived in a rambling estate in Surrey with his wife and 7 or 8 children, which he maintained from the income of his numerous properties.
The father of my son had purchased a bottle of very expensive whisky for his parents' wedding anniversary and left it on my dining-room table prior to us all going round to celebrate with them later. After he left, the landlord came round to give me some documents and complete the 'admin', noticed the whisky, and with a very red face proceeded to lecture me on the "only spirit that he believed in - the holy spirit, uttering all kinds of admonishments and goodness what all else in his diatribe.
It all went pear-shaped after that. Because the majority of the other tenants were part of his 'sect'. Most kept themselves to themselves, but there were three who would now be described as having mental health problems. One (and I felt very sorry for her) roamed the house at night banging on people's doors and sometimes, if they didn't respond, she'd throw various kitchen items at their door,including food. She came to my back door which formed part of the back entrance to the house, and frequently tried to turn the handle on my door. She was in receipt of benefits and couldn't manage her money, didn't pay her bills and on one occasion, had her electricity turned off. This resulted in her buying and burning candles - often leaving them lit whilst she went out. We, the tenants, clubbed together to pay her bill - to prevent her from burning the house down.
Another tenant, a man in his 60s, lived in the top flat - a 'turret', and he was an alcoholic who frequently came home late, shouting and swearing at each flat door - especially those occupied by women whom he had a 'thing' about, in particular one who was a teacher. On a couple of occasions, he loudly proclaimed that what she "needed" was a man to "sort her out".
The teacher herself had 'problems' too... she used to bang on the floor when my son was ill with croup and wrote frequent hasty notes pushed through my door abou the noise of his coughing, accompanied by various religious 'texts' either invented or drawn from the cult; she even complained about the doctor's car driving up in the middle of the night (those days when doctors actually came out to their patients) to check on my son. One day, in a moment of absent-mindedness, she ran a bath and went out - the result was inevitable, as she was in the flat above mine...
I was out at work all day but I must admit, the atmosphere when I came home was one of worry and tension, and the dread at the sound of a bang or knock on the door. It has a terrible effect on your well-being - because you never know from one moment to the next what is going to happen, and I sympathise with anyone in this situation.
Footnote
Those tenants are now deceased. My son now owns the ground floor flat and has himself rented it out as he's living abroad. The remainder of the tenants are all lovely people, the property is well maintained, peace reigns, and it now really is a very desirable residence. Maybe the years of anxiety were worth it.