That was a year I buried myself in work, and as a result, I rarely left the flat. For a time, Ferry – and my imaginary adventures with him around London – were my main contact with the outside world. I started playing Roxy Music’s greatest-hits album over and over, the soft-focus saxophone and synth tracks transporting me back to the early-eighties suburban dreamscape of my childhood. Sometimes I opened the windows in the hope he might overhear his songs and strike up a conversation. But if I saw him coming, I’d get embarrassed and run around the room slamming all the windows shut. This is the psychological conflict of having a pop star next door: You want to be cool and blasé about it, but at the same time you’re dying for them to invite you over for tea and a round of Guitar Hero.
via The Globe and Mail.