Of course, we don’t like to think of ourselves as the kind of people who feel comfortable mingling with the kind of people who mill about at house parties in south west London drinking Shiraz and munching on garlic olives and salted butterbeans.

But we are. Or rather, we can be, when given the opportunity.

Our lovely downstairs neighbour, K, is leaving on Monday for a six week trip to southern Africa.

This evening, at a drinks and nibbles soiree for neighbours and friends (and in some cases, rarely for London, but not around here, both) we talked total *beans* over multiple glasses of moreish red, answering innumerable questions about wedding plans from couples long hitched, on their way home to pay off the babysitter in Nappy Valley, or hearing tales of dates-from-hell from established singletons over the spiced almonds.

It’s a strange kind of world, and one into which we never thought we’d fit, but it’s nice that we do - or at least, that we can.