The neighbour you’ve always disliked has to go to the emergency room. You’re the only one who can take her.

This woman panics at the drop of a hat. She is always yelling at her kids, her dog and her beleaguered partner. She’s neurotic and takes the term ‘highly strung’ into the stratosphere.

Over the handful of months since we moved in she’s accused me of mail tampering, poisoning the planet by overfilling my recycling bin, neglecting my duty to the community by refusing a protest placard on my fence and even of making moves on her husband.

I try to school my dubious look into pained politeness, “You ate what and need me to take you where?”. But she backs up her previous statement with green pallor, rolling eyes and sweat-matted hair…and then by collapsing on our door mat, dramatically upending our shoe basket and sending umbrellae skittering about the porch.

She will definitely haunt me to my last breath if I let her expire on my doorstep, so I sigh, grab my keys and drag her bodily towards my car.

During the short drive to the hospital I go over her various aliases, trying to pick the least offensive to register her under when we get to triage. ‘Looney Lucifer’ or ‘Lumpy-Lucy-Legless-Lackbrain’…which sounds more neighbourly?

I really should take my husband’s advice and get to know the real names of those who live next door.