一种fter last week’s disaster when I accidentally joined my new neighbours for their bedtime sing-a-along through the bathroom wall, the only thing I could do was leave town. In the immediate aftermath of my tuneful faux pas, I spent a sleepless night looking up local properties on Rightmove, trying to work out how much I might get for my place, if London houses with a garden just big enough for a bin were selling at all post-Pandemic. How low would I have to go for a quick sale that would get me out of Dodge before I bumped into one of the new neighbours in the street? And where would I move to? Was the Pembrokeshire coast far enough away to guarantee I would never, ever bump into the people next door? Probably not. The beaches of west Wales will be prime staycation territory this year.

但是之后, would the neighbours even know who I was if they did bump into me? We hadn’t actually introduced ourselves yet. Perhaps when we did meet face to face I could pretend I had a twin sister who had been staying over on the night of the sing-a-long?

“Yeah, my sister Mary, she’s a funny one…”