The excitement over the read-through on Sunday conveniently made me forget all about my terrible behaviour on Saturday night.

I should have seen the signs. The Man Who Lives Oppostite suddenly acquired a bright red accessory on his living room table during the course of Saturday. For those with better eye-sight, it may well have been clear that these were tall red flowers. I thought it might be some fine new tableware. Not that this really matters because it was but a prelude to the Night of Shame.

I (as it turns out, also) had friends round on Saturday night for tea. Pathetically recreating apparently the cocktail of choice in NYC at the moment (champagne which I conveniently translated into cava, vodka and elderflower cordial), things became lively quite early on. The Man Who Lives Opposite was doing more of his topless DIY which attracted much attention from the cackling entourage on my side of the street.

And then poor man, we noticed he had a guest. You may remember he has had a guest once before. That night, he also acquired flowers for his usually bare dinner table. That guest was also a man. May have been the same man. They ate, presumably drank and appeared to do some DIY together. Which gave rise to endless speculation about the nature of their relationship.

But the major source of intrigue was that they also stayed up til 4am. And who knows, maybe beyond? But thoughtlessly, they kept disappearing from view despite our endless vodka-fuelled peering through the poor man's windows.

The next day I was, and still am, ashamed. I dread seeing him in the street. I fancied I felt him staring through my window remorsefully last night as I tried to look intellectual and above such base behaviour, reading innocently and peacefully on the couch. Nonetheless I fear he might take out a stalking order or injunction against me. It would almost be well-deserved.