I’ve got a neighbour, who’s got a teenage daughter.

This teenage daughter shags her boyfriend very loudly in the bedroom next door to mine at 4 in the morning, every weekend – and I never complain about the noise.

As a family, they’re often prone to noisy late-night parties, fuelled by cider and Lambert & Butler. And yet I rarely bat an eyelid – publically.

They also have a cat, which – until it recently went on safari – regularly made use of my vegetable bed as a giant litter tray.

So, when this neighbour effed and jeffed about my afternoon acid house set the other day, I was in no mood to tolerate her Jeremy Kyle Show-esque aggression.

It began when I bumped into an ages-ago caner pal of mine, after dropping my brood off at school.

Delighted, we headed to a hostelry, where we enjoyed brunch and Bloody Marys, Leffe with lemon wedges, pints of Stella and jugs of Moscow Mule – we were friends in the ’90s.

Several drinks in, talk turned to my DJ-ing days and I was persuaded to go home and drag my acid house vinyl collection into the light.

I’d forgotten how actually cool I am and what a venerable selection of records I own – and, no, they’re not for bloody sale, before you ask.

Pretty soon, the windows were vibrating, my student-era Boddingtons ashtray was overflowing and we were knocking the living-room lampshade with a broom handle to give a swinging, disco light effect.

And that’s when there came the hammering on the window – Old Ratchet Face was standing in my front garden, nose to the glass, looking fairly angry.

“Turn the fucking music down, will yer?” She foamed.

I put my best Stepford smile on, as I opened my front door.

“It’s too fucking loud.” The neighbour raged, eyes popping.

“Sorry.” I signal to my friend to turn the tunes down.

“You will be, one of these days.” She walks away down the bath and pulls her Primark dressing-gown a little closer to her corned-beef body.

“I’ve got your number, lady,” Then, with pointed finger, “I know who you are.”

And for a minute, while my old pal’s skulking indoors, it’s just me and the neighbour, eyeball-to-eyeball.

“How’s the cat?” I ask, innocence personified.

“He’s been gone a week.”

“Shame,” I say.

I shut the door and head back to my front room to watch her walk down the path.

She’s looking a bit puzzled. A little suspicious, perhaps.

I smile inwardly with my real face and turn the music back up.