I heard some surprising news a couple of weeks ago. Evidently, my house was for sale, which came as something of a shock to me.

"So, you've finally decided to move," said a friend. "Where are you going, back up north is it?"

"Whaaat?" I said. "I'm not going anywhere, unless you know differently - and if you do, kindly tell me how?"

"There's a picture of your place in today's Argus, in the property pages," she said. And so there was, but attached to my house is my neighbour's house and that, it seemed, was for sale.

Again, it came as news to me. There was no For Sale sign outside, nothing, in fact, until a Sold sign appeared a few days later.

Now the waiting has begun and let me tell you, the suspense is killing me.

Waiting for what? For my new neighbours to appear, that's what.

Call it fear of the unknown if you like but the prospect of new neighbours can be a deeply unsettling one.

In the old days, according to television social history documentaries, friends and neighbours were one and the same with only the occasional bout of neighbourly one-upmanship or adultery to mar the suburban tranquillity.

Today, every time you open a newspaper, you read about cases of neighbour rage, of neighbours who ruin nice, quiet, neighbourhoods.

There are those of a deranged disposition who harass their neighbours by playing the same record at full volume a hundred times a day - starting at 3am - and others, usually students, who throw regular all-night parties, midweek as well as at weekends.

Then there are thoughtless loonies who light bonfires in their back gardens on warm sunny days when everyone else is sunbathing . . . whoops, sorry, that was me.

There are neighbours with kids who shout "f . . . off" when reprimanded for shooting at neighbourhood pets with air rifles from bedroom windows.

Equally, there are others who own the neighbourhood pets, large dogs which are left alone for hours - day and night - and which bark continuously with all the stamina of crying babies.

Then, of course, there are neighbours with crying babies.

Some people have neighbours who are serial killers and block the drains with body parts. Others have neighbours who drive them to take protracted and expensive legal action - or to commit suicide.

And there are neighbours everywhere who have cats that use your garden as a lavatory. Fortunately, in all my years of having neighbours, I've only had to endure the latter.

That's the way I'd like it to continue, of course . . . well, not necessarily the bit about the cats using my garden as a feline convenience. So, who's it going to be then, who is it going to be . . .?

"Well, I wouldn't want you as a neighbour," said The Mother as I worried aloud at the weekend.

"Why not?" I asked. "I'm clean, respectable and friendly."

"You snore," she said. "It wakes me up, I can hear you through my bedroom walls so I'm sure the neighbours can too.

"Sometimes," she added, almost in a whisper, "for the sake of a good night's sleep, I wish I could sneak in and smother you."

"Oh, don't!" I said. "That would definitely lower the tone of the neighbourhood."