We live on the 19th floor of a condo block. This occasionally affords us unsought but tantalising glimpses into other people's lives. Anywhere I have lived, but especially in this country where public nakedness is actually illegal, I find it bizarre that people would allow their unclothed or intimate moments to be seen by anyone who might happen to be glancing casually in their direction. I mean, we close the curtains - don't you?
So the couple who spent one evening lying on their bed watching TV together in the altogether, with the light on, the windows open and the curtains and goodness knows what else blowing in the breeze was a bit of a surprise to us. In that strangely compelling attraction of Big Brother, every time one of us got up to get a drink, we'd just have to glance out of the window and comment "they're still there".
There's a guy in the block opposite us, a couple of floors down. We've seen him before, taking off his socks and hanging them up to dry. We've never actually caught him putting them back on again, but you can't help wondering, can you?
I was talking to Mum on the phone the other day. Now I usually wander from room to room, looking out of the various windows while we chat. I had to interrupt her account of the shocking weather in England to tell her about a much more exciting event unfolding opposite. Sock Man was out on his back balcony, taking off his clothes and putting them into the washing machine, garment by garment. It was one of those train-wreck, can't-look-away moments, you know?
And do you know what? They don't have tan lines.