Yes, I live above a whorehouse. I haven't always; when I moved into my building, the nocturnal activities of the flat downstairs extended no further than the odd burst of loud Playstation playing, but this was soon to change.

My suspicions were first aroused when the new tenant of the downstairs flat declared that she worked from home and would be receiving many visitors. This was because she ran a delivery service, she explained.

When it transpired that the visitors were exclusively men who tended to look shifty upon entering the building and be adjusting their nether regions on the way out, it became obvious that she was indeed running a delivery service, of sorts; delivering orgasms to those in need.

It does inconvenience my life in some ways, with the constant stream of punters, some of them mistaking me for the prossie as they run into me on the stairs, but it makes a bloody good anecdote.

Now, when asked that initial ice-breaking, getting-to-know-you question at parties:

"So, where do you live then?"

I answer:

"I live above a whorehouse."

Update 7/11/00: The council have written to me informing me that they are taking action to close down the brothel; the prostitutes are being über-subtle, presumably hoping that if I don't see them I will not notice the men lingering outside my front door, or indeed the Chinese man who is here everyday with his bicycle to pick up a fresh supply of leaflets with which to decorate local phoneboxes.

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