It was a brilliant spring morning, a warm sun bathing the back balcony under one of those Bondi-blue skies streaked with the faintest filaments of cirrus cloud. I was pegging my partner’s knickers on the washing line, wondering what the hell I could write to meet that relentless weekend deadline.
Then it hit me. My neighbours, bless their hearts, could SEE these knickers. It’s just one of those things. All my life, my neighbours had been able to see my knickers on the washing line, and I theirs.