Memories from the pub. She's familiar, hello, how do I know you? Oh! My old neighbour! Hello, how are you? There's an unwritten social contract with neighbours - you pretend you can't hear them conducting their lives, you can't hear them yelling, having sex, crying, listening to the Great British Bake Off. All that stuff. Now I don't live there so the contract is finished. Oh! Your daughter sounds like a nightmare, I tell her. What? She says. Oh, just you know, the endless screaming fits and tantrums, I say. You could hear that? she asks. Oh yeah, I could hear everything. There's an awkward silence. So, I say, so what was your husband doing every morning at about 7am, with his little toffee hammer, banging away endlessly. With a what? She asks. She's not heard of a toffee hammer which throws me for a while. Who hasn't heard of a toffee hammer? There's a silence then she says, I honestly don't know what you mean. Okay, I say, never mind, did you heard me when I lost it once? When he used the (I stop myself saying toffee) little hammer and it was 7am on a Sunday and I banged my pewter mug on the wall repeatedly yelling SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP? She thinks for a moment and says, No, I never heard that. Isn't it funny, I say, that I could hear so much of your life and you didn't hear me at all? Yes, she says, funny.