When I lived on a Brixton council estate many moons ago, I was kidnapped by my neighbour, a drug dealer called Junior who wanted me to be his baby mother number nine. As a sweetner he tried to give me one of his recently cut dreadlocks which he’d thoughtfully put into a gilt frame. Apparently, all eight of his baby mothers had one, which was nice, but, not wanting to get sucked into Junior’s south London harem, I turned it and him down. However, days later, I did say yes to a lift ‘down the road’ which turned into a drug run to Notting Hill. I managed to escape when Junior, having done the deal, nipped into a local shabeen to wet his whistle with a sarsaparilla. Anyway, I’m digressing big time. The point of this story is that neighbours are a tricky business. Take the other day. I was walking down my road trying to find where I’d parked the car, when a slightly florid gentleman with rubbery lips accosted me. Him: “I know you.” Me: “Do you?” Him: “Yes, I see you all the time.” Me: Horrified silence. Him: “I know your car.” Me: “ummmmm” Him: “I like your number plate.” Turns out Big Lipped man collects number plates in the way other (slightly less barking) men collect train numbers. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it appeared my number plate was particularly significant because it begins with a ‘V’. Me: “V for Victory?” Him: “No, V for Veronica, my first love. She died. Have you got a boyfriend?” I have to say I was relieved to hear Mr Big Lips has moved to Bexhill on Sea.