Bad news, or exhaustion after a difficult day – so many ills can be banished by watching 25 minutes of Neighbours. My ex-pat friend El, whom I traumatised with a maggotty mouse in the afternoon, responded eagerly when I suggested a glass of wine, a bowl of crisps and a shot of Neighbours at teatime. She’d watched it for years before emigrating. That she was hopelessly adrift with the current plot-lines made no matter. A quick resume following the opening credits and we were away.
There was a heated conversation going on in the coffee shop and three teenagers appeared on the sidelines.
“Who are they?” whispered El.
“Three orphans who live next door to Paul Robinson.”
“OK,” she said.
Aficianados of Neighbours receive lightning expositions of unlikely scenarios with an accepting and a cheerful heart.
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