Something amazing happened last night. For all the journalists that are probably reading this as I type, spurred on to find out more about my show by my captivating press release, bear with me for a moment. As for those that don't know, this blog should probably be subtitled "and my ongoing obsession with The Man That Lives Opposite".

So last night. Backtracking for a second, I'd had a great little chat with two of my fellow workers, Brian and Kirsty, on the train on the way back from an inconsiderate 3:30 Friday afternoon in Glasgow meeting. I told them all about The Man Who Lives Opposite and how my obsession had grown to the point that I was starting to seriously consider leaving a note on his £60k vintage Porsche windscreen saying who knew what but something witty, clever and surprising. Practical Brian suggested that this was a slightly lunatic approach. Surely better just to 'casually' encounter him in the street and strike up some debonair chat.

I dismissed this as farfetched and ridiculous. What were the odds of me actually crossing paths with him in the street without actually lying in wait for him? (Although of course this path-crossing did actually take place a couple of weeks back as I returned from a beach-side run pouring pleasantly with sweat and that time, culminated in a breathy "hi".)

But then last night, got in from work, about to set off on my run / gym trip and I heard the tell-tale chug of his vintage motor. So I shot into my bedroom, flung on my most respectable gym kit, seized up my trusty i-pod and darted out the door. And then slowed to a casual preparatory stroll as I passed his car. And he was footering around getting the convertible top back up. A perfect opportunity for a "Is that your car? (State the blindingly obvious, Claire. Always a good move.) It's just gorgeous."

If it had been some kind of soppy american movie, I would then have stumbled, fallen with my face in a discarded ice-cream cone and had the subsequent chat with streaks of ice-cream adorably daubing my face. However, it was not. So nothing of this ilk happened. I stood lumpenly in my shabby gym kit and we made small talk about his car.

But the amazing revelation. He (The Man Who Lives Opposite in a street a little way out of town in Edinburgh, Scotland) comes from Nottingham. My city of birth. And residence in fact for 18 years. Incroyable.

He's a property developer apparently - which apparently sometimes involves living in squalor, presumably in the flats he does up - and would explain his sometime absences from his flat. And might explain his long hours on the computer - if that is in fact what he does for long hours in his window bay into the night. And he had to take his car into a garage in Essex for 3 months a while back which would explain its long absence from the street. So many loose ends obligingly tied up!

Eager not to seem like a total freak, I didn't dawdle but darted off on my run after a casual (and meaningless) "see you later". "Are you off for a run?" he said. (Thank god he didn't think I normally dressed in those slightly too short baggy trackie pants.) "Well, these lovely evenings..." I said. "Do you run on the sand or the path?" said he. "Oh the path. What kind of glutton for punishment do you think I am?"

I became uncomfortably aware that my key ring ("What did the blonde say after sex? Are all you guys on the same team?") was dangling out of my hand and hid it away hastily. And then I was off, running like the wind down to the beach.

And then had to stop round the corner as I'd run too fast and winded myself.

Now of course I'm a bit freaked out that this guy can see straight into my living room. Somehow it's one thing with someone I know nothing about. And another altogether that a property developer from Nottingham should be watching my life. Time to get a blind put up.