Thursday, 12 March 2009

Yesterday, I decided that for the first time since I moved to London some light-years ago, that I would speak to my neighbour. Now, for those of you who don't live in London, I can hear you say - what? You don't speak to your neighbours? My neighbours are my best friends! - but trust me, in London it's one of The Rules. You do not ever speak to your neighbours. Speak to someone on public transport and you're clearly a lunatic. Give someone eye contact on the street and you're a serial killer. You get my drift. But as I arrived home last night, I saw my neighbour come out of his house and I thought: shall I do my usual thing (i.e. run into my house, pretending I haven't seen him) or shall I let someone new into my life and actually engage in converation? Well, I wish this story had a happy ending. In the film of my life, my next door neighbour would turn out to be Jarvis Cocker's best mate and as a result of talking to him, DH and I would be invited to lots of intimate soirees at his house, not to mention tiny unannounced gigs, international festivals and the like. Jarvis would become my new best friend. But sadly, no. My next door neighbour is one of the most boring men in the world. He drives a BMW and said 'goody' a lot during the course of conversation (and not Jade Goody, that would definitely have been a conversation-starter). I found out that he likes red wine and owns a timeshare. I tell you this for free: knowing your neighbours is fundamentally over-rated.

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