Neighbours from hell

I try not to be a party pooper but the other night I came home to such a cacophony of revelling from a neighbour’s house that I concluded there had to be a gathering of international gangsters, drug barons and hookers in my street. The thumping hip hop, screaming and glass smashing was coming from a house whose back garden borders mine at the bottom; so I crept outside to see if I could catch a glimpse.

I picked my way to the end of the garden in the dark, pulled myself up over the fence and braced myself to see hoards of Nike-swathed homeboys dripping in gold chains and spliffs. But when I got my nose over, all I saw was an open kitchen door and beyond it four smartly dressed professional types in their 30s — two men, two women — dancing around a CD player and waving a bottle of Sancerre.