We’re not super-tight with our neighbours, but we’ll often exchange idle gossip and bitching in the common driveway with a core group from five other Palaces.
We don’t have a huge amount in common (apart from the fact that our houses are all feeling the interesting results of the shonky developer, our mutual loathing of another neighbour and our collective dismay of people misusing the visitor parking spots) but they’re all quite nice people.
Don however, does have something in common with one of them – they’re both the same age and are mad-keen regular golfers (at different clubs) and so as driveway chat turned to golf, they decided they’d play the very occasional round together. Saturday morning was the second time they’d played.
On the journey to the course, by way of idle chit-chat, Golf-neighbour asked Don how he’d spent his (early) morning.
Don: It was great! I watched a little golf, cooked myself some eggs.
Golf-neighbour: Doesn’t carolbaby cook your breakfast?
Don: Ah, no.
When Don was relating this to me I assumed Golf-neighbour was doing that kind of tedious attempted jovial “lulz-wife-in-the-kitchen-making-breakfast-amirite?” thing.
Alas, not the case.
One less thing in common then.