MORRISEY, in one of his more cynical moments - if there ever was such a thing - once wrote a song with the hook line We hate it when our friends become successful'.

I'm not so sure about that. At the risk of offending everybody that I know, I have to say that none of them are challenging Gordon Brown for the number one spot, or giving Richard Branson a run for his money, but that is not to say that they are not successful in their own ways. Phew, I think I recovered that one.

What I do know is that it is not much fun seeing your friends in a spot of bother. And residing in one of the most beautiful spots on the globe does not isolate us from the woes of the world.

Take Patrice, the melancholy plumber. Despite a brief hiatus when his melancholia was lifted by a short-lived romance, his glass has again been half full, and he has been sporting a face that could turn milk sour at 100 metres. I've tried tickling him, pulling faces - all to no avail. But suddenly the soothing ministrations of a 23-year-old Spanish waitress turned all his grey skies into blue. Everything makes him laugh now. He has grown his hair, and wears an Alice band to keep it out of his Bunsen burner, and couldn't care less when we tease him about it.

Darryn the brain-damaged electrician has not been faring much better since he embarked on the insane mission of building an Olympic-sized pool in his front garden. The project caused him endless sleepless nights, and his usual font of all knowledge in the shape of Trev the builder was no use whatsoever, having no experience and even less interest in the construction of pools.

He struggled on regardless in the pursuit of watery dreams, to the detriment of his health and happiness. Until one day, a miracle: he reached his goal, he finished his pool, he filled it with water and he and his family finally got to enjoy the fruits of his labours. What a difference; it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

Which brings me to my right-hand man, the inimitable, the accident magnet, the one and only Guillaume. Despite his daily setbacks in the shape of things like picking up the wrong aerosol in the morning, lifting his shirt and spraying his armpits with shaving foam, he has finally liberated himself from his all-consuming woe. He has been trying for a couple of years to sell his house and get away from his detested neighbours and in-laws (a long story), and he has finally succeeded. He came bouncing into work the other day; his sale had gone through, he had bought himself a mini-digger (a lifelong ambition), and we let him have a bonfire on site. If he had been any happier he would have exploded.

As for us, Sue has just discovered that Simon the gender-challenged Siamese has given birth to three kittens that she/he has brought to live in our garage. My parting words to Sue were that she was not to get too attached to any kittens, as she set off down the hill carrying cushions, cat food, bag of toys, bottles of milk and the kitchen sink.

In the next life I want to come back as a 23-year-old Spanish girl that can build pools, transforms into a digger, and looks like a kitten. They'll all love me.