The chap next door seems so nice and we’ve shared jokes as we’ve pottered about all arvo, so we invite he and his wife to join our group for happy hour. His wife a sweet looking senior quickly morphed into a most depressing, loud mouthed master of one up manship and the conversation went something like this:

“Oh, you read Lee Child, he’s light. I read history, Ken Follett.” We suppress a giggle. And she hits us with a left hook.

“A recent death in your family?” she asks. Instead of treading gently and with respect she wades in with: “My mother in law actually died of shock when we told her that her son had died! (I’ll bet you can’t beat that, was implied).”

What did you do for a living? We ask trying to change the subject. “I had a very important and stressful job. I was a P.A.” At this stage my mate who was herself a Personal Assistant in a seriously large organisation, is starting to gag on her chardy.

On it went. Her suburb was mentioned not once but often. The Mercedes and the smart, wealthy children who married oh so well. My mate plumped herself up and told her that her daughter married a diplomat, Australian ambassador to country ‘X’ in fact. Quickly the conversation changed course. (One to us!)

“We have a coffee machine in our van.” “So do we.” I reply. “Us too.” says my mate.

“But we have one at home too.” “So do we.”

“But ours is a Saeco.” “Ours is a commercial machine, Woody used to be in the business.” Oh my God I’m sounding like her.

“But we only drink Italian coffee.” Now it’s Woody’s turn to bite. “That would be stale. If you like your coffee then you should buy local freshly roasted beans.”

I can’t bear this tit for tat any longer…”Gee it’s getting cold, it must be time for dinner.”

(Oh God, let’s hope they move on tomorrow).