I live on a very interesting street. It is long and narrow. When I come out of the front door with our miniature wire-haired dachshund, John Joiner (he's nine months old), I can see the scaffolding on the building next door. I usually say, 'Hello' to the jolly builders if they're not too high up. Across the road, I can see the 'Mairie de la Proprietee' – the headquarters of the street-cleaning department of Paris, where the rubbish men work. They are often outside smoking or having a chat. I often have a chat with them, too.

To the left of our building is a monastery of Capucine monks. I sometimes hear them singing Plainsong in the early mornings. Across the street from them, next door to the rubbish men, is a convent. Nuns go to and fro on our street, but I rarely see a monk.

In fact, it is a very holy street, our street, because we also have a Korean Catholic Church with lots of enthusiastic Korean members.

When I take John for a walk, I usually turn right.. I pass beneath the scaffolding and a shower of masonry and brick dust greets me. I sometimes say 'hallo' to Nadia, whose White Russian parents fled the 1917 Revolution. She's lived in Paris all her life but is still somehow very Russian. She keeps a 19 year-old poodle called Joker.

After Nadia's house, I come to the Boulevard Raspail where I turn into the inaptly named Passage d'Enfer which, far from being hellish, is actually very tranquil and pretty. There, I let John off the lead and he runs straight to see his friend, Compass – a coal black Scotty dog. Compass belongs to two architects who work there.

If John needs a long walk, I sometimes take him down to 'Le Dome' – a restaurant on the Boulevard Montparnasse. There, I say 'hello' to two waiters who work there and are great friends of ours. They are called Denis and Yann.

I try to avoid the fishmongers because, following a language misunderstanding by my foggled mother rather too early one morning, the cashier there is convinced that my father is the principal violinist of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. In fact, he is a war correspondent and tone deaf.

***

I live in a very nice building. It has a courtyard with lots of flowers. I live on the fourth floor. I can see the 'L'Hopital Saint Vincent de Paul' from the sitting-room window. The doctors often come out to smoke in their white coats on the balconies. From my window, I can see the 'Tour Montparnasse'.

In my building, there is a lady who is one hundred years old, three marmalade cats and my dog.

Halfway up the stairs, on the way to the first floor, there is a small porthole in the wall. Peeping out of this porthole is a medium sized shark-head. Not a real one, of course, but a plaster one. I have shown it to many people and most of them have run away in terror. It can make waiting for the lift rather awkward. Miranda, my six-year-old sister, never runs away. She calls it 'Sharkey' and talks to it every day.

There is a mystery in our building. Our bicycle tyres were punctured three times and when we had them repaired, the people in the bike shop found a nail in my mother's bike wheel. We have never found out who did it, but we suspect 'Monsieur Pied-Nu' (more about him, later.).

In the courtyard, there is an artist's studio, build in 1900 by the owners' great grandfather, Gustave, who created his 'chef d'oeuvres' there every afternoon. Now it is an art gallery, 'L'Atelier Gustave'. They have different exhibitions of paintings all year round. Most of them are horrible, but a few are nice. Also in the courtyard is an architects' office. They spend most of their time smoking and staring at their computer screens.

***

Monsieur and Madame Germain own our apartment building. Their sons and daughter, who are all grown-up, live in the building also. Monsieur Germain has a very mousey face. His main occupation is either hanging-about on the street and talking to everyone he meets, or sitting in front of the window in his apartment. If he is doing the latter, each time someone comes into the courtyard he pops down and asks them lots of questions. I think he is a bit mad.

His wife, Mme Germain, is more of a background person. She loves gardening. If she is in the courtyard, it is not to ask questions but to tend her flowers.

Monsieur and Madame Germain's sons do not come into this story but their daughter, Flora Germain, does.

Flora Germain dyes her hair red. She is thirty years old. We know this because on her birthday she threw an enormous party. The music was memorably loud and continued well past the dawn.

'The Man-on –the-Second Floor' lives on the second floor. He has a big, big balcony with long boxes of rather monotonous red geraniums.

One bright Summer's day, Mummy met him on the stairs. He said, 'Good afternoon, Madame. When you water your plants, please don't let any of the water drip down. It makes my windows dirty.' Mummy said she would be careful and the matter was closed. A couple of days after this incident, Mummy found out that all her plants were dying so she had no choice but to water them. The next time Mummy met The Man-on-the-Second Floor, he was very angry. He said that, while Mummy was watering her flowers, some water dripped on his head while he was watering HIS flowers.

That evening, Mummy was talking to my aunt on the phone. Mummy related the incident with The Man-on-the-Second-Floor. My aunt laughed her head-off and told Mummy that the next time she saw him she should tell him to go and buy himself a rain hat!

After that, Mummy took no notice of The Man-on-the-Second-Floor and neither he nor she has spoken about it since.

***

Monsieur and Madame 'Pied-Nu' live on the floor above us. They keep their shoes on all the time. In fact, I sometimes think that they go to bed in their shoes.

I can always tell the difference between Monsieur Pied Nu's shoes and Madame Pied-Nu's shoes. BANG-CRASH-BOUMF! Ah! Monsieur Pied-Nu! CLIP-CLIP-CLIP! Ah! Madame Pied-Nu!

7am sharp, that's when it all begins. I can imagine them walking into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. For breakfast, I imagine they have brioche, croissants, coffee and some Fitness Cereal! Ugh!

Each evening, Monsieur and Madame 'Pied-Nu' go out to a concert or a play or to the cinema. They come home at around 11pm. For some reason, judging by the noise, they decide to re-organize the furniture in their apartment. I expect it's just that but I imagine them dragging a cat on roller skates all around the floor. After 2am, silence – usually – reigns.

You might well ask why I call Monsieur and Madame 'Pied-Nu' Monsieur and Madame 'Pied Nu'. 'Pied-Nu' means 'barefoot' in French but, as I mentioned earlier, Monsieur and Madame 'Pied-Nu' always wear their shoes in the house. I came to call them that because one day I went upstairs to ask them if they could possibly be a little quieter. Madame 'Pied-Nu' answered the door.

"Good Evening, Madame", I said, in a polite voice.

"Well?" Madame 'Pied-Nu' replied, ungraciously.

"Would you be so very kind as to take your shoes off when you are at home?" I asked.

"But I always go barefoot in the house!" she said, irritated.

Madame 'Pied-Nu' had her shoes on at that very moment - a pair of cerise suede stilettos.

"Ahem!" I coughed, "Why, then, Madame, are you wearing your shoes?"

Her face went scarlet – indeed, it almost matched her shoes – and she hurriedly said, "That is because I am going out. Goodbye!" and she shut the door.

Madame 'Pied-Nu' proceeded to stay at home that evening, entertaining four friends for cocktails. Judging by the noise, they all wore stilettos.

So that is why I call her and her husband, Monsieur and Madame 'Pied-Nu'.

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