Our upstairs neighbours are not the sort of people you want to have run-ins with. They have regular moped deliveries and I see packages exchanged through blacked-out BMW windows. I once knocked on their door to ask if I could borrow a potato masher. They looked at me as if I were mad. They seem to sleep all day and do all sorts at night. I usually go to bed to the sound of floor-board drilling. I wonder what they are hiding: are they supplying illegal stuff for the next generation of Tory leaders?
The other night, at about 5 a.m., I heard a banging noise, followed by shouting at the front of the house: ‘POLICE, POLICE.’ What had I done? I peered out of the window. Officers were bursting into the house, heading for the upstairs flat. They started kicking in the neighbours’ front door. Somebody jumped from a balcony to escape.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in