As much as we hate them, nosy neighbours do have their uses because who else is going to notice if something's afoot in the community?

IT couldn't happen here. Could it? An Austrian father has admitted that he kept his daughter in a cellar for 24 years, fathered seven children with her, one of whom he threw into a furnace, three he brought up with his wife and the other three he left locked in the cellar with his daughter. The neighbours knew nothing.

It's hard to believe. And yet...

How many of us really know our neighbours or what they are doing? We pride ourselves on privacy. Unlike earlier generations who lived cheek by jowl, sharing yards, gardens, fences, trials, tribulations and even loos, and where secrets were almost impossible to keep, we are less likely than ever even to know our neighbours' names.

Apart from a cheery wave every morning, I rarely talk to our lovely neighbours, especially in winter. Unless I'm feeding the cat or taking in parcels, it takes me a while to even notice if they're on holiday.

And they're the ones I know.

Other neighbours to whom I've never spoken at all, come and go and I could tell you nothing about them. They could have built an entire prison under their back garden or have 20 illegal immigrants in the spare bedroom, a cannabis farm in the garage or alligators in the bath and I wouldn't have a clue. Not a clue. Too scared of seeming nosy.

We have learnt to despise busybodies.

Growing up in a small town, I suffered from these women, who made sure my parents knew of my exploits even before I got home. More seriously, an over concern in other people's business, when coupled with the nasty sort of gossip, can cause real misery. No wonder we prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves.

But we need so-called busybodies. We need people to notice what's going on in their neighbourhoods. We need people who keep an eye open for other people's children, for old people living alone, for the lonely mother or the depressed widower.

It's so-called busybodies that are first on the phone to social services when they expect a child is being abused. It's so-called busybodies who find an excuse to go round when they suspect something's wrong.

They are not busybodies. They are good neighbours. It's what makes a community, almost what makes us human. Time and again we hear of tragedies that could have been averted, if people had only noticed what was going on and acted on it.

Privacy is important and I cherish it more than most. But there are even more important things than privacy, as the shocked people of Amstetten are now discovering.

OKAY eco-warriors, prepare to attack me now. I have a confession to make.

I am hoarding carrier bags. I have a cupboard stuffed full of the things and if I can squash in any more, I most certainly shall.

Yes. I am panicking.

For the last year or so, in common with a lot of people, I have tried to cut down on carriers. I understand completely all the arguments against them. So I have refused bags, re-used bags, used boxes instead, taken a shopping bag, or emptied my trolley straight into the car and then made endless journeys from car to house, sustained by the holy glow of virtue.

And suddenly the cupboard was empty.

So what do I line my waste paper baskets with? What do I use for the first layer for wrapping parcels? For holiday packing leaky things like shampoo? For picking blackberries and sloes? For wrapping rubbish for the bin? (Because, of course, now the bin is emptied only once a fortnight, everything has to be wrapped.) Or just, well, for carrying things. Carrier bags are just so useful, so re-useable. We need carrier bags. Lots of them. Well, I do anyway.

The bags for life might be tougher and posher, but they are not so universally versatile.

Just good for shopping and not much else.

We will realise, once they have gone, just how useful and versatile carrier bags are.

We will, of course, end up having to pay for bags for all the jobs that carrier bags did for free.

I am not sure that I - or anyone else - has thought this entire carrier bag business through properly yet. But until they do, yes please, I would like a carrier bag.

"I DON'T want to be in the press for having coke up my nose... my nan would see it," said young singer Adele Adkins, thus again proving that parents count for little - but grannies, well, grannies rule the world.

LET us have a moment's appreciation of Pauline Prescott, wife of John.

And what a wife. Over the years she's put up with him and the fallout from his passions - for cars, flying fists and Tracey, his diary secretary, the latter complete with ridiculous photos and more detail than most of us wished to read over breakfast.

And now he's revealed he suffered from bulimia for many years.

And all the time, Pauline has smiled supportively, said very little and not put a foot wrong. Even when she was reunited with the baby she'd given up for adoption before she knew John, she managed to turn the interviews into a paean of praise for her husband's kindness and understanding.

She is a heroine. And let's hope John thinks so too. He's got a lot of making up to do.