Day 451: I Am Keeping An Eye On The Neighbours

I have been thinking about launching myself into local society, as it were (by for e.g. joining a local society or club).

However, there are some actual facts I know about my new neighbours in the Quebec village in which I live that lead me to believe that befriending the 'locals' may not be such a good idea.

Here are the facts I know. Let me know what you think: befriend the locals or stay inside watching BBC America? (Watch out though: if you are a bit sensitive do not read on - I use the word 'lubricant' later on, and not in an automotive context!)

Fact One

Just over the fence lives a man who grows exotic vegetables in the nude. Despite spending many long hours at the top of our garden "picking raspberries" (i.e., ruffling about in the bushes whilst looking over the fence), I have not yet seen him.

Happily, I need to pick tomatoes later and it is unseasonably warm today. Fingers crossed!

Fact Two

Further down the road lives a man who has an underground aviary containing over one thousand canaries with Beatles hair-styles (and some pigeons with fringes). The aviary is apparently well-lit and ventilated and Quite The Thing. Interestingly, my companion has performed an autopsy on three of the canaries. (Luckily, they were dead and he is a veterinary pathologist.)

Apparently Underground Bird Man sometimes invites the pathologist round for drinks. Once again: fingers crossed!

Fact Three

The village in which I live is apparently the Swinging Capital of Quebec. I had forgotten this fact until today, when I mounted the free local bus which goes to the supermarket via over one hundred orchards.

Remembering made shopping difficult. I found it impossible to look the man on the fish counter in the eye for fear that I would start imagining him in a hot-tub clasping a bowl of car keys. Likewise, I could not look Catherine in Patisserie full in the face, for she was standing next to Jean-Marc, who glowed with a greasy sheen that suggested that he would like to get her and her twin sister in the gazebo with a towelling robe and a two-pack of peppermint lubricant.

Coming back from the supermarket in a taxi (having missed the free local bus due to the inaccurate timekeeping of the driver), I was subjected to rigorous cross-questioning by the taxi driver (who was, I believe, a reject from a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band), including whether or not I lived alone, and whether I had been here long. I could not look at him, but I am pretty sure he was a) dribbling; and b) taking notes.

I am now quite convinced that every house in the village (particularly the Dallas-style ones), are full of whirly-eyed local people thrashing about with each other, organising 'pot luck suppers' that involve more than just a choice of chopped salads, followed by breathless labouring on top of each other to a soundrack of C. Dion.

Meanwhile, in my own home, the only excitement to be had is when the pathologist and I eat dinner early and watch digital video discs of David Attenborough's Life Of Birds.

(On the other hand, Cable Guy is coming at 5 to instal the National Geographic television channel, so who knows what may happen next!)