After 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.
But then, 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…”
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