Jo is my new neighbour. Well, when I say 'neighbour' I mean 'person who lives on the other side of the alley'. The only buildings directly connected to mine are a lingerie shop and jewellers. Pretty much ideal for a man on his way home from work: "Hello dear, I bought you this huge diamond. Now, would you mind wearing *this* outfit tonight?"
But back to Jo. I met her this weekend while clearing up the detritus from Friday's curry-and-bad-DVD night. She was in the process of sticking a neatly handwritten note through my door apologising in advance for her housewarming party. "Hi!" she said, "Do you live here?"
It would seem that the sight of me in marigold gloves, clutching a dish cloth and an oddly shaped Belgian beer glass was not evidence enough. Maybe she thought I was a cleaner. Am I really that old and wrinkled?
"I'm having a housewarming party," she continued, "Would you like to come?" She leaned forward conspiratorially, "Most of the people around here seem really old, so I haven't asked them. Just warning them about the noise."
Gratified about not being included in the "really old" collective, I had to regretfully decline. First-Born was staying over that night and I'd rather spend time with her than with a group of drunken girls (my 18 year-old self gave me a slapping about that statement later on, but thats another story.)
By the sounds of things it was a good party. First-Born, who despite her protestations could sleep through the passing of a marching band, didn't hear it. I did. It began to wind down at about 5am, and I'm pretty sure someone was violently sick outside my bedroom window. I haven't dared check yet. There were no signs of life at all on Sunday.
I am hopeful of an invitation for the next party. I can perhaps introduce them to the delights of Strip Rocky Horror (although judging by some of the noises heard at around 3am, that may be a bit too tame for them...)
