Bought a big fuck-off house in 'leafy Surrey'. Invited to neighbourhood Christmas drinks. I was, admittedly, my accustomed scruffy self - jeans, t-shirt, Converse, a bit stubbly, hair rather longer than is usual among the stockbrokers and bankers who live around here.
Over a glass wine, I was talking to a woman in her sixties, who had been in the neighbourhood forever. She was as posh as a Royal Doulton soup tureen and she spoke in that accent that makes 'trousers and a tall hat' into 'trizers and a toll het'.
"Ah, you're new, arntyo?" she said. "I don't know you. Are you a risident?"
"Yes. Just moved into 21 Melrose last week."
She surveyed me up and down.
"Number 21 Melrose?"
"Yes."
She was evidently perplexed, troubled. She didn't have half-glasses on, but she peered at me as if she were looking over some.
"Ah - I understand!" she said, at last, as if she had solved a conundrum. "21 Melrose! Yes, yes. Is that the one that's been converted into flets?"
"No, it's fucking not," I didn't say.
For years after that, whenever there were local functions, I made sure to stay close to her, because she did this sort of thing all the time and I found it endlessly amusing.