Spring has sprung and things, or rather people, are on the move. My friend and neighbour is relocating to ghastly Cobham, home of Chelsea Football Club’s training ground, thereby exchanging Desperate Housewives for Footballers’ Wives.  On the plus side she has sold her house to a real life celebrity – not, thank God, a Kardashian – but someone whose most  recent film was on at the local Odeon only weeks ago.

I can’t remember when the neighbourhood was last in such a tizzy, possibly  not since Brad and Angelina took their children to the local Pottery Cafe but in this instance I had a cast iron excuse to pop round with a bottle of Bolly and introduce myself which would have been slightly out of place at a kiddy painting party.

And what delightful people they are!  In a spirit of neighbourlyness I even offered to vet the guest list for their house warming party – so easy to invite quite the wrong types when you are new to an area – and to organise some staff for the evening which, thoroughly grounded as they are, they declined.

Big mistake.  Half the people I know, and that would be the male half, only ever accept invitations in the certain knowledge that their hosts’ home will be awash with nubile young teenage girls in very short black skirts plying them  with drinks.  It is almost unnecessary to provide food at all!  People were going to be seriously peeved.

The invitation stated that we should arrive from five o’clock. “That’s because he has to be up early for filming” we opined knowingly before wondering whether the dress code would be cocktail or tea dresses. Oh the social minefield to say nothing of the choice of gift.  I opted for an Oxfam allotment, a follow up to the goat that I gave everyone last year.

Prior to my arrival Useless the Younger went up and down the street about twenty times noting the names of the other guests, the price I had demanded for taking him with me.  Good sign – no cars outside.  Everyone had obviously arrived in a limo.

When I worked at ITN  I was constantly and irritatingly asked if I met lots of interesting people, such is the myth of glamour that surrounds anything to do with the telly.  The answer to which was, of course, a resounding no, never.  And so it proved with the so-called starry party goers.  Far from standing around being famous and handing out signed photographs, they were all just rendered speechless at the thought of being somewhere where we all knew each other – all too well – where you could park your car outside your house and it would still be there next day and where no-one is selling drugs on the street corner.  Round here they are probably delivered.  By Ocado.

This was a world previously unknown to them, the like of which they had only ever read about in scripts which never got made.  Best of all it proved a salutary lesson to Young Useless.   90% of famous people are small and dull and you don’t want to be one of them.  As for me I think I’ll be house hunting too.  Celebrities?  There goes the neighbourhood.