I emerged from the house clutching a foil package of last night's mussels. There was a tradesman standing on the footpath. Dark floppy hair and librarian glasses - he was more English lecturer (or Jill's Dave) than plumber. Hi, great beads, he said. There's a man who knows accessories, I thought. Different to the boy on Sunday night who failed to acknowledge my Bruce Springsteen bag, even though we were talking about music and bands and gigs and festivals. I even put it at counter level (twice) to ostentatiously remove things. Nil response. Tried a different accessories-related ploy. Removed the large red perspex Treece bangle and put it on the bar table. Nothing. Again, at the pizza place, in the middle of the table, by the pizza. Nada. Actually, that should probably be niente.

Perhaps the plumber was just desperate for a distraction from our not-drawing-breath-neighbour. She seems to have more than her fair share of tradesman and one can't help wondering why. Annie thinks it's so that she can talk more and more loudly to annoy us. As I was packing the mussels in the kitchen we could hear her on the footpath. She's dreadful, Annie said.