The bed was rocking hard. It wasn’t, however, for the usual reasons.

Sure, the springs were making that tell-tale rusty sound—the kind that typically accompanies sex—but the neighbours weren’t having sex.

Are you curious as to how I know about their private life? Do you fancy me a pervert who sneaks into people’s homes, poking a hungry eye through bedroom keyholes? Please! I’m not so unsophisticated. I have tiny Buddhas embedded everywhere, and that’s why I’m able to track my neighbours’ every movement.

Anyway, they weren’t having sex, and I’m sure my publisher will find this information useful.