I live in a new apartment block in London. It's smart, clean and modern. But even this inanimate block of brick and mortar contains elements of the surreal and bizarre.
The underground car park, for example. Each day I do battle with the other apartment tennants over which space belongs to whom. There are no numbers on them, you see. I've had more notes stuck to the windscreen of my car than Santa Claus gets each Christmas.
A more entertaining aspect of my apartment block is the lift. It has, approximately, a floor space of one square foot. So imagine the unease when a couple of Englishmen clamber into the tight confirms and are forced to stand unconfortably close to each other for what seems like five years. Occasionally, I will start a conversation with the other occupant (who is always carrying a full rubbish bag, despite going UP). The conversation soon dies when I realise I have nothing in common with the other apartment owner... except the close proxmity means we are virtually in a relationship.
