I am the sort of person my dad would hate. I am washing my car. He would not hate me, though, because he hates clean cars. On a hot summer's weekend he would sit in his armchair, wearing nothing but his blue Ethel Austin Y-Fronts, watching UK Style and deriding the "real" man next door who would be out doing the gardening, painting the gate post, putting up a fence or washing the car. He would sit and tut to himself while he wiped the toast crumbs from his beard.

(Please note: this toast would have been consumed in the kitchen since he has banned us from eating in the lounge after they had a brand new carpet installed 20 years ago.)

Washing the car in a block of flats is always tricky. It is made easier by the fact that I am on the ground floor. Not only can I sit and watch Number 52 make out with his girlfriend when she drops him off but I can also pass buckets of water through the window.

And then there's the neighbours. I have to move my car to a parking spot which is not mine. Doing this can lead to being ostracised by neighbours and carries the same social stigma as wearing real fur coats, eating Nestle's chocolate, voting BNP or going to a Take That concert. Should anyone challenge me, I am ready with my defence - "Would it be ok, if you wouldn't mind, please, thank you, if you could possibly find a way to borrow my space until I am done."

I also have excuses set up for if I am confronted by someone claiming that the "Leasehold Agreement" doesn't allow me to wash my car in the communal area - my excuse would involve punching them on the nose. Should I be challenged by someone talking about a hose pipe ban, my argument would be three-fold - "Firstly, a hose pipe ban in Manchester is as likely as Wayne Rooney making the World Cup. Secondly, I am not using a hose pipe." The third part of my argument would involve punching them on the nose.

I spend a lot of my life making up excuses up in case I am challenged by someone asking why I am doing what I am doing.

I move on to waxing my car. A woman appears at her window / balcony on the other side of the development. I wait; expecting to be told off for something. She does not say a word. I wonder if this brazen beauty has bobbed up to observe my bristling and bulging biceps bursting out from beneath my wife-beater. Or maybe she's wanted to see some alliteration.

After a few minutes she flicks a cigarette from the third floor window. It pirouettes and flutters in the wind and lands on the ground.

I return to waxing.