Yup, lucky me - I live in the middle of a giant graveyard otherwise known as the burbs. Mum, Dad and I enjoy our very own architecturally designed, split-level, living-death pod. From this vantage point I have been able to study the natural habitat and behaviours of that common species - the middle class family.

A typical day in our street goes something like this:

6.30am: Geoff Gosney goes jogging in teeny little shorts and NO TOP with his dog. He's old and flabby (not the dog) and winks at me. Ick. Paedophile alert...

7am: Mr Lang across the road collects his morning paper in the same disgustingly short robe he's worn for 50 years.

7.30-8.30: all the garage doors automatically roll themselves up and the living dead (including both my parents) glide off to work.

9am-3pm: Nothing. Nothing, nada, zilch, zip. Prozac reigns.

3pm: Designer children in designer clothes are picked up and brought home from school to their privileged lives where they get to watch vids and play on their Playstations. Been there, done that.

5pm: Mrs Lang, McKonie and Fisk are each in their own house each on their second bottle of Chateau Whogivesafuck.

6-7pm: all the living dead (including my parents) come home again in their 4-wheel drive, fuel-injected coffins, the garage doors magically open ahead of them and they descend into an evening of dinner, TV, drug of choice and oblivion.

8pm on: Ngaire Jenner does really naff 80s dancing in her kitchen with the light on. In summer she wears a sports bra and sings along with Whitney Houston into the pot-scrub.

11pm Tuesdays and Fridays: Tony McKonie drops off a tall dark-haired woman around the corner from his house.

2am Random nights: Boy racers drag up and down our newly-sealed street. Mum rings the police to complain while Dad tries to go out and 'dialogue' with them.

Another glass of embalming fluid, anyone?