Regular readers will remember the repeated difficulties we have encountered with Sky Meat Lady, our upstairs neighbour who has a habit of flinging uncooked foodstuffs out of her kitchen window onto our front garden.
You may be pleased to hear that things have gone somewhat quiet on the Sky Meat front, as her evening tend - these days - to involve sitting by her front door drinking cheap cider from a bottle in her lingerie, or by greeting unsuspecting neighbours with the eye-peeling sight of voluminous bum cleavage. Apart from these disturbing habits, she's mostly harmless.
So, it was as Jane and I sat in our back garden of a fine summer evening, enjoying a fine French white and discussing the great works of literature (or the length of the dog's nose - I forget the details), that I catch a flash of pink from the upstairs bedroom window.
I am shaken to my core.
However, on second glance, it appears it is merely Sky Meat Lady folding a bedsheet, which is pink.
Sipping my charming French white, I am no longer shaken to my core.
Then she puts the pink bedsheet down, and she is - to coin a phrase - in the nip. I've seen everything.
I am shaken to my core, and my mind starts to write a "Dear Fiesta" letter as part of its defence mechanism. I pretend not to look, but my ninja skills have let me down. Let me down badly, for I am rumbled.
"Why," Jane asks, "the furtive looks upstairs?"
Why lie? "She's in the nip and I am shaken to the core."
"To the core?"
"ALL THE WAY."
I yearn for her to start flinging the meat again (not sexy slang).