So let’s meet her too seeing as you’re suddenly learning a lot more about me and the people around me.

We shook hands when we realised we were neighbours, and share a polite “Good morning” or whatever depending on the time of day. She’s called Susan, but I don’t know that because she said so. No, it was Gary who told me. And it was Gary who told me all sorts of other things about Susan too.

Before I go into any of that, let me set the scene. Susan is smart, immaculate even, the sort of woman who probably doesn’t own a pair of jeans, but always wears an elegant headscarf, either around her neck, or actually over her hair if the weather dictates such a need. I say that as I don’t actually understand why certain women wear headscarves, unless it’s to cover their curlers. Susan would never be seen in curlers. I don’t think I’ve even seen her in trousers.

She wears heels or flats, nothing else. The flats look like Tods, the heels just look super smart, not really high, but enough to show off her well turned ankle. When she gets out of the stair well and walks across the tiles outside you hear this lovely even clip, clip of her heels. God damn that’s sexy! And yes, Y does know of my little fetish. But it gets worse!

Susan is probably in her mid-forties, so a lot older than me. Anyway, I was happy mildly fancying this woman from a distance when I was in Gary’s flat one evening and we heard the clip, clip. Gary said something delicate like “F**k me, I’d go back to girls for her!”

Interesting.

So I’m not alone in noticing her. And I love’d his sweet way of expressing his respect for the lady.

But then he tells me about her guests.

Gary’s flat is on the end of our block and you can see down to the street below from his, but not the others.

Gary can see the cars that park on the cool turntable awaiting confirmation from the janitor of their guest space.

Gary’s flat is the perfect place to spy on anyone’s comings and goings.

Ah, just as I was getting into the swing of the story the door bell goes – have to go meet a mate now. More later.

We first met the fellow next door when coming home from The Light Bar one night having had a fair few sherbets. We’d taken Sheila, as often even places with no dog rules let her in, cause she’s kinda cute, and she always creates an conversation opener.

Then when we got home the fella next door, let’s call him Gary, came out as we were laughing along the corridor. We were both immediately worried that he was going to complain about Sheila, but thankfully no, he just wanted to introduce himself.

Gary has turned out to be a hoot. He came in that night and drank a horrible amount of whiskey with me, and described himself as a serial monogamous gay dating internet prowler! Sounds like he loves finding new partners online, but never stays with anyone for more than a year. Since that night he has also told us that he was married to a girl for several years, was never unfaithful to her, but they got bored of each other and he had his first male experience shortly after that.

You wouldn’t guess he’s gay, but then I’m pretty useless as determining who is and who isn’t these days. There are straight blokes in the office who wear make up, and gays who act hard. But to be honest I don’t actually give a damn anyway.

Anyway, back to Gary. He loves us having the dog there, as if it’s a touch of rebellion against the Corporation, and nowadays he’ll look after Sheila over night now and then if we have to both be away. It’s funny how I always feel guilty about asking someone to look after her, but actually folk like Gary actually welcome the opportunity – I bet he lets her sleep on the bed too.

The lady on the other side doesn’t as much lavish Sheila with attention, rather she turns a blind eye and just acknowledges her politely if we all meet. She’s pleasant enough, but happy to keep her distance, which is OK by us.

Or, Keeping A Dog Secret.

We’ve had a dog for years, initially she was mine, but Miss Y has adopted her as if she was always hers.

We’ve lived in many different places, sometimes houses, sometimes flats, sometimes owned and sometimes rented, but always the dog has been there, even though there have been times when she has had to remain covert.

At the moment we’re in the Barbican, the flat is only rented, but we’d love to live here full time. However the service charge is huge so we’re not actually likely to try to buy the place. Money though is only a small part of this equation. The main stumbling block is that dogs aren’t allowed here. Because Sheila had been with us wherever we’ve lived we didn’t even bother to check when we signed the lease, it was only after when a neighbour asked how we have got away with keeping the dog here that we checked.

Now in many flat developments you could get away with it for a long time r=provided no one complains, but in the amazing grey concrete utopia of the Barbican secrets are not easily kept.

It’s a strange place, ominous to those unfamiliar with it, yet loved by most who stay here. Many of the buildings are raised on concrete stilts, and all are characterised by long corridors both inside and out. Outside these are paved in uniform red clay tiles, and inside covered by a now faded industrial mustard coloured carpet. Walls are generally wood panelled. Many of the flats have been lived in by their original owners from the purchase date, and so they often retain their amazing 60′s fittings too.

Ours has a huge bath, and an ancient hob with three rings on a straight line. Heating is included in the price and so many are hot as hell.

But no dogs!

Sheila has to be super quiet. Now fortunately she’s quiet anyway, but any hint that she’s about to bark will have one of us fussing her to keep her quiet.

The neighbours on both sides are in on the espionage thankfully.