There’s a familiar old saying, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family. The same can be said of where you live. You can choose your house, but you can’t choose your neighbours.

It’s actually quite an important deal when you consider that you’ll all be living in close proximity for the foreseeable.

When moving, my biggest fear has always been, not that the new neighbours would be surly or unfriendly, quite the opposite in fact. My biggest fear is that the neighbours will be too friendly.

I grew up in a house where as soon as you poked your nose outside of the door, Mrs Smee would descend upon you and if you managed to escape in anything under 20 minutes you were doing well. You had to choose your moment and make a dash for it.

So when we first moved into our family home some eight years ago, I instantly took a liking to Jeff. He didn’t say much. Which was a good start. But what he did say was friendly. This is perfect I thought! Love the house, love the neighbours. When Jeff did talk, which wasn’t often, he had the most melodious soft Welsh accented voice. You couldn’t help but notice it. I swear he could’ve made a fortune recording audiobooks. That lilting, soft Port Talbot inflection. Every sentence, a melody.

Anyway it was all going well, a friendly note here, a nod of the head there, when I came in one day to find him washing our car. Oh crikey, I thought. Was this going to turn out to be Mrs Smee, all over again after all? Hours of chat about the quality of wax polish and car engines.

But he just smiled his friendly smile. Exchanged a few tuneful pleasantries and that was that. I couldn’t believe it. This neighbour thing was going better than expected.

Things ticked away nicely. Ruth popping in to catch up with Abi occasionally. We’d keep an eye out if they went away and vice versa. Following month came home to find Jeff had weeded the drive. “Well, I was just doing ours,” he said.

So now I had a lovely clean car and a nice weed free drive without the prolonged chatter. Jeff was definitely my kind of guy. You’d be forgiven for thinking that this is where it stopped. But no gentle readers, quite the opposite, this is where it started.

Next was getting the grass cut every other week, following that the fence was painted, I was then spared the annual toil of outdoor Christmas decorations. This was developing into the perfect friendship.

My laziness was the perfect match for his restlessness. His gentle quiet nature was the perfect match for my innate dislike of frivolous chit chat. A man of few words, but every one friendly and every one melodiously delivered.

Now you’d be forgiven for thinking that this is now where it stopped. But you’d be wrong again gentle readers. Because one day I came home to find he’d returfed the lawn.

But his piece de resistance came, when we went on holiday for three weeks to come home to find that he’d entirely relaid the back patio. Now that’s what I call a good neighbour.

Throughout our friendship, Jeff struggled with an illness which eventually got the better of him. I have made merry of the fact that Jeff and I didn’t talk much.

The truth is that throughout this time, he did talk to me and I, I hope, talked to him. The thing is that talking doesn’t always mean chit chat. You can speak through deeds, you can say things by trusting someone, you can build relationships by respect.

Eventually all our family loved Jeff. Abi, Reggie and I, all of us had a soft spot for Jeff. And I am sure of this. Wherever he has gone to now, they will be pleased to have those little jobs you never get round to being taken of.