Close encounters of the neighbourly kind

This morning, as I rolled over and hit the snooze button for the 8th time, preparing to burrow down for another nine minutes, a sound made my eyes pop open.
It was a fart.
Rich had already gone to work. Basil was on his armchair. And it sure as heck wasn’t me. It was our neighbour.
You see, we share a driveway with our neighbour, and it goes directly along the side of our house. The side where our bedrooms are. The house is not known for its solidness – in fact it wouldn’t surprise me if the walls were made of MDF – hence if you walk along the driveway while we’re in bed, we’re going to hear you. You are not all alone, humming a tune, enjoying the birdsong. We’re listening. So when you drop a bomb while you’re getting something out of your car, we’re going to hear it.
A lovely way to start the day.
When Rich and I discuss what we want from life, the first thing – always the first thing – is a big house set in the middle of ten acres, with no other houses to be seen. The joy of being able to sing really loudly to a bad song. To be able to jump around the house doing aerobics without having to pull the curtains. To sit on the deck staring at the stars and smelling the night-scented flowers without being slammed by a wave of cigarette smoke from next door. City life – it’s not for me.