I haven't even moved into my flat but I've already had an almighty fight with the caretaker. The day I got my keys, he came to give me a lecture on the dos and don'ts of the apartment block.

There seemed to be a whole lot more don'ts than dos. He strode around wearing a tool belt around his hips like some DIY sheriff and he kept telling me that he was in the house management committee as if I was somehow of inferior status.

He told me I couldn't store my two bikes in the basement space, I couldn't get hardwood floors because it would disturb the person beneath and I wasn't allowed to do any DIY on a Saturday or Sunday.

He gave me these commandments in a severe tone as if he could sense I was going to be an errant, irresponsible flat owner and needed to be curbed.

After I'd finally managed to cut in and get him off my property, I felt a sense of caretaker rage stirring. I know they're all supposed to be busybodies, but this one was smug as well. I was riled even more when I discovered the laws he'd laid down for me were being broken left, right and centre.

The horrendous prog rock band that the man down the corridor listens to every morning booms across the floor as if on a tannoy system; then there is an afternoon onslaught of Classic FM from the mad woman upstairs. People drill at all hours and the woman next door works in front of her computer stark naked. Is that allowed in the terms of our contract?

Anyway, each time I saw him striding down the corridors I felt the stinging injustice of it all. He thought he was lord of the manor and I was waiting to pick a fight.

The moment came when I boiled over about the lack of storage space for my bikes and gave it to him between the eyes. He was surprised but gave me a mouthful back. After this another row followed in which we both grew even more hateful. Only now can I understand how neighbours end up killing each other over Leylandii.

It all got a bit overheated and in my down moments I even considered selling up before I'd moved in.

Then, one day as I was waiting for my sofa to arrive, I heard a timid knock on the door. When I opened it I saw him shuffling off furtively after carrying my sofa up four flights of stairs.

I said thank you. He gave me an icy grin and we scuttled off our separate ways.

Since that time we've had a number of over-courteous conversations. He has invited me to a Christmas party and I have complimented him on the Nativity scene he's put up in the lobby.

I guess that in these nightmare neighbour scenarios, it only takes one act of conciliation to break the spell. I see now that he hasn't changed, but is just what he's been all along. Just a nosey old caretaker who means well. I might not sell up after all.