Some plonker has gone and assembled the communal washing line right outside my kitchen window.
Don't get me wrong – Mrs Abdul and the rest of her minions hanging up fresh linen all day isn't the botheration.
Even that her five grown up daughters and their children stare into my living room en route to the aforementioned washing line, doesn't bother me.
Or that she needs to hang washing eight times a day.
(This is strange - just how much washing does this bitch need do?)
The fact that they enjoy ogling me spread eagle on my couch while I watch Girls Of The Playboy Mansion with a bottle of wine in front of me is not of concern to me. Who cares if she's seen me in my underpants?
The worrying aspect of the location of this washing line is when I don't know that somebody is actually there half the time. Often I'll walk into the kitchen and shit myself senseless on seeing a shadow hanging stuff and fannying around with clothes pegs.
When I don't know they're there at all, is when I'm concerned. What if I give my nethers a little scratch?
Or more worryingly: I talk to myself a lot. Most of it's crap infused with the lyrics of Def Leppard, but like yesterday, she was witness to an entire fucking soliloquy.
I was in the kitchen talking to myself loudly – but throwing in a couple of “Yeah! I think I'll have some hot chocolate, oocha oocha oocha oocha....”
“God, these naked white thighs need a tan, Pour....some...sugar..on..me....., I am a strong, capable woman, yes I am, yes I am, when I'm inside my house, nobody can hurt meeeeeee...” Loudly.
I was a little embarrassed.