A horse-riding friend, living in the peaceful tranquility of a Sussex hamlet (thatched roof cottages and all that sort of chocolate-box stuff), visited my central-Brighton home the other day and tried to commiserate with me about my terrible environment, with rubbish sacks and traffic jams high on her list.

As a townie, I have little experience of what happens in rural pastures beyond the realms of Preston Park.

It's a bit of a mystery to me, like the far side of the moon.

However, she was so persuasive that I felt inclined to agree with her.

Then, after she left, I gazed out of my window and within the space of one hour, saw a group of samba dancers in wonderfully colourful costumes returning from a function, a woman in a dressing gown walking her dog, a man bellowing "I used to be a town crier", a "stuntman" standing on the roof of a car moving at very slow speed with a cameraman filming him and a gaggle of giggling girls on a hen party outing carrying a five-foot long, blow-up penis (viva Viagra).

This might not be everyone's cup of tea. But I thought to myself, would I really want to exchange it for a view of green fields enlivened by the occasional sighting of a cow?

No thank you.

-Fred Boulden, Brighton