The thing about post-Thatcherite Britain in the 21st century is that no one knows who their neighbours are. And that's just the way I like it. Lisa bumped into the bloke from across the landing at lunchtime today, who told her that the woman who turned up here yesterday morning was a gypsy who was casing the joint in preparation for an organised hit from her traveller mates. Which is the kind of inaccurate story the Daily Mail would be proud of. He then added that she tried to gain access to his flat by pushing past his wife and saying she was looking for someone called Lisa, "whoever that is".

We may never know. Especially as Lisa didn't tell him. We did discover, however, that the person who called the police was Mrs Spin-Cycle upstairs, so she's clearly capable of taking prompt and decisive action. As long as it doesn't involve insurance.

In the meantime, I've decided that in the light of recent events, we need to be prepared for a quick getaway. So I've bought Amelie some new trainers...


They're Nike Air Max, and they retail for upwards of fifty quid. Although I paid £2.99 in a charity shop. Unfortunately, having rushed home from work today to show Amelie my exciting new purchase, she declared that they're "not as pretty as I was expecting", and ripped open a parcel from her Grandad, the contents of which proved far more engaging...


To be fair, I might have got the bargain of the century, but the woodpecker probably cost more.