h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

You missed some of the advantages of the glorified-cubicle life. I love watching other people mow the grass, rake the leaves and pay the property tax. When my plumbing breaks, it's someone else's problem. Houses are anchors, which is fine provided you enjoy being tied down.

As someone who owns their apartment, let me say that anyone who dislikes being tied down could not survive a co-op interview. As for yardwork, I also own the garden off the back of my apartment. So I get a cramped apartment, a 30-year mortgage, and the thrill of picking leaves out of my rosebushes.

In Australia, they're also called units. Dictionary.com defines a "Unit" as a measurement of a single thing or person - which is particularly appropriate for the topic at hand, since you can generally fit no more than one person at a time into a unit.

"Apartment" is actually a VERY apt description of this type of abode: 'A' is the latin prefix for NOT, as in atypical. So 'apartment' means a place which is NOT separate! I still think "Compartment" would have been better! I currently dwell avec hubbie, hubbie's twin sister & hubbie's best mate (also hubbie's twin sister's fella) in a one-bed 9th storey apartment (flat) in Birmingham England. It's luxury compared to a cardbox box in t'middle of motorway but I cannot wait until I relocate to sunny California (even though it will be some months before we can afford even a small house there!).

Flats are great, aren't they? Hear the insatiable couple next door shagging at all hours. Grit your teeth for the tenth time that day as the thoughtless bastard students from the top floor run down the common stairs and slam the outside door hard enough to cause ripples in your coffe cup. Wonder anew at the pile of semi-liquid substance on the first landing everyone's been dodging round but no-one's cleaned up yet. Swear daily at the postman who can't be bothered climbing the stairs and leaves your letters inside the front door where the rain blows in. Actually, I have no nostalgia for them whatsoever, which is why I moved to a bungalow. Now no-one talks to me at all.

As a fellow bungalow owner Spiny Norman I will talk to you.

"Choke"
Why thank you, Loonytunes (may I call you loony?). It's nice to know there's still some community spirit left.
Actually, what am I talking about: we're both in our bungalows communicating electronically when we should be trading gossip over the fence. Heard about Mrs Jones at number 42?

Her husband must be a private detective. I have seen him turn up in 42 different disguises.

(From behind the lace curtains) Yes, that's what she'd like you to think. But of course it's actually a different guy every time. She thinks we don't keep a twenty-four hour watch on her, but I've split the surveillance with number 37, and we could tell you a few things about her, believe me! For example, she's actually up to 44 as of this morning. There was some rain on the zoom lens, so I can't be absolutely sure, but I think it was the electrician who's being doing another job at number 28, if you get my drift. By the way, do have a working lawn mower I could borrow?

Sorry I can't help with the lawnmower. I use Lawns R Us based in the medieval mall in Tunbridge Wells to do mine. I also use Maids R Us, by coincidence also from Tunbridge Wells. Get the ugly ones I reckon. They are so pleased to have a job and pathetically think you like them. No luck yet with the butler. If you are looking for staff I find the article posted as Tunbridge Wells a great help.