I wasn't going to take this place if it didn't have its own front door to the street. But it's on the ground floor and has a little side door to the world. I use it all the time. The front door proper leads to Stalag Luft or a benevolent community of elderlies depending on your point of view.

Thursday last at 4.am. I heard the lift and went to my front door proper spy hole. Oh, no. A male elderly was using his zimmer frame and, dressed only in a tie-at-the-back thin, blue gown was heading for the building's main front door. By the time I was dressed he was up by the gateway on the road. I chased after him and touched him on the shoulder. He turned round with a crazed look and said

"I have to get out of that building. I'm going home"

Me: Where's home?

He: Oxford.

Me: No. You live here in Abergavenny. (Pointing) You live in that building.

He: Do I? (Turning and shuffling back down the path) Do we go there then?

Mr Black was having a very confused episode. There's an alarm on his door that goes off if he leaves his flat and Social Services are alerted. By the time they arrived I had the gentle man settled back in his flat and when I said "People are here" he said "Oh, good" with relish - he loves company.

His neighbour, Sir Arthur, has promised to root out Mr Black's published biography for me. Apparently, as a boy, he had been spat at on the streets of India where his father was a Consul, and later, in his hay day, he was not at the forefront of Forensics, but the forefront itself.

I should tell you that I am not the Warden here. These days they're not called "Wardens" anyway. They're called "Co-ordintators". ("Warden" connotes keys and institutionalisation) No, I am off them, my dear! But at 67 the residents all think I'm too young to be here and should have held it off.