I popped in to see my best friend M today to find her house in uproar, looking for all the world as if she is packing up to move in a hurry. But no, M is just possessed of one of her periodical urges to re-arrange all the furniture and pictures throughout her house. This time it was sparked off by the arrival of a new bed which meant that her bedroom came under scrutiny and was found wanting. And so the rest of the house. The contents of cupboards are emptied out and must be moved to different cupboards in other rooms and here is M, happy in the midst of this chaos and here am I, every cell in my body revolting against it, unhappily sipping tea in my favourite chair - now moved into an unfamiliar position. I am nonetheless glad to find my favourite chair: although on reflection this is not really a worry as M is one of life’s hoarders. This month’s ‘Popular Mechanic’ features an article that caught my eye: it suggests that scientists are finding that far from coming closer together, different peoples are becoming more unlike each other than ever. I haven’t read it yet, don’t know if this is about genetics or other points of comparison. Still, it made me think about myself and M. My house, by contrast, has all its furniture and pictures in exactly the same places they have occupied for the last 17 years. Ok, the bedrooms (not mine) have changed a bit as the children have grown, demanded bigger beds or actually moved out but otherwise, I am satisfied that all of the above are arranged to the optimum of convenience and artistic merit. There must be something wrong with me.