Neighbours

For the past few days I’ve been frantically watering my lawn in anticipation of the London hosepipe ban. True, there are other things in the garden that need watering – the roses, the magnolias, the rhododendrons, as well as the tomato plants, the rosemary bushes and the olive tree. But I can probably manage to get round them with my watering can once the ban kicks in and in any case it’s the lawn that’s my pride and joy. Gazing at the stripes after it’s just been mown is one of life’s great pleasures as I settle into late middle age. When Caroline and I first looked round our house

Q. I work at a desk by a window which looks out on to the street where I live. I am disturbed by the sight of the same Englishman strolling past the window innumerable times per day. I know most of my neighbours and he is not one of them. Who is he? I can’t think of a reasonable way to ask him, nor do I wish to encourage a friendship, but this mystery is beginning to obsess me. — I.D., London W11 A. Put some marketing bumf into an envelope and address it to, for example, ‘John Brown’ with your street name and postcode, but the house number missing.

How I long for a detached house with a drive – and, more importantly, no neighbours. My current abode is a three-bed semi with no off-street parking. It’s a free parking street but before you think I’m boasting, it’s also close to three primary schools, has a corner shop and most of the residents seem to be building loft extensions. Taken together, it adds up to pretty painful parking. It gets even worse when one of the tank-driving neighbours is home as he frequently takes up two spaces, which is particularly vexing when I’ve got a boot full of heavy groceries and there are no spaces near the house. Then

When I moved to London, my husband Henry gave me a copy of Kate Fox’s Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour. He was hoping the gift would avoid an awkward conversation about our cultural differences. As an American, I cannot think of anything more English than that. Fox’s chapter about introductions bothered me. The brash American approach: ‘Hi, I’m Bill from Iowa,’ particularly if accompanied by an outstretched hand and a beaming smile, makes the English wince and cringe. I had never known friendliness to be cringeworthy. I felt sorry for Bill from Iowa. I pictured him arriving in my neighbourhood and being scorned for enthusiastically introducing

The gloves are off in my battle with the two brothers who live in the flat upstairs. They have just socked me a brutal left hook. And so no more am I going to be the neurotic, menopausal fruitcake downstairs. From now on I am going to unleash my difficult side. It’s a shame, because when they first moved in I thought they were going to be the neighbours I had always dreamed of: handsome and polite, with a look of dread in their eyes whenever I banged on their door. When I explained that the wheelie bin must be put out at right angles to the kerb at 8

Q. I have lunch once a month with an old university friend. Over the years we have both thickened out but I now make a serious effort to curb my appetite. I will usually order one glass of white wine and a starter-sized mozzarella salad, but my friend invariably has the main course, the cheeseboard and three glasses of wine followed by a digestif. We’ve always split the bill but now that my ‘share’ is, for example, £20 to his £120, I have started to feel a tiny bit bitter about paying £70 — especially since I don’t think he has noticed the anomaly. After all this time, how can I

A few years ago, I got a bit fed up with receiving Christmas cards from my friends designed to show off just how well they were doing. A typical card consisted of five or six blond children on ponies or quad bikes with a massive country house in the background. The caption would be something like: ‘Greetings from Shropshire.’ So I came up with an idea. Why not create my own version? I’d get my four children to strike a variety of delinquent poses. One would be outside QPR stadium, fag in mouth and can of beer in hand. Another would be doing an impression of Lord Coke with a

Q. There has been a marked increase in the number of people who have pristine flooring and are so keen not to have outside dirt brought in that it has, in my view, entered the value system of good manners for me to offer to remove my shoes when arriving at their homes. That’s fine. But in the evening, especially if I’m invited to a dinner or drinks party, I think about my shoes according to the rest of my outfit. To then have to take off the soft, possibly Jimmy Choo, suede shoes or delicate leather boots and spend the evening in barely stockinged feet is, to me, uncomfortable

Q. We have moved to the country and my husband often prefers me to drive — not because he wants to drink, but just because he’s quite a lazy fellow by nature. My problem is that his back-seat driving is making our journeys intolerable as he keeps telling me how to drive. Apart from this we get on well, so how can I end his control freakery in a car? — Name withheld, Sittingbourne, Kent A. Next time he asks you to drive, say you will only do so if he agrees to wear an airline-style eye mask (keep a stockpile in the glove compartment) and leave you to get on

Q. I graduated this year (I got a first) and have written more than 70 letters to potential employers. Those who deigned to reply just sent formulaic acknowledgements and regrets. People who know me can’t believe the apathy. Everything I’ve already achieved (without parental help) is there in my CV. Volunteering, sport, my own small business… Moreover, I’ve already raised enough money by my own efforts to be able to work without being paid for six months, an offer I’ve included in all my applications. Clearly, the employers are just too busy to read my CV. If they did, they would definitely give me at least an interview. Any suggestions?

A few weeks ago, I accompanied my daughter to an Open Day at Roehampton College, where she is hoping to start a teacher training course in September. I enjoyed it — and was impressed by the broad mix of motivated young men and women who, if all goes well, will soon be teaching the next generation of primary school children. Towards the end of the afternoon, the co-ordinator said she wanted to offer a few tips about the interview process that would begin once all the applications have been submitted. It turned out she had only one main tip: avoid upspeak. She stressed the point vigorously. Indeed, her message for