As someone whose last job was to be professionally nice, I'm ashamed to say that I've found myself seriously outclassed in the pleasant stakes by my fellow New Yorkers.
So general wisdom has it that people in Gotham are rude. I shudder to think of the smothering bonhomie on offer in Small Town America. The thought of all that genuine human sweetness makes my teeth ache.
In my local DVD rental store, the man behind the counter will tell anyone who'll listen that I'm from the same hallowed turf as his beloved Arsenal. No matter how many times I tell him that I'm more a Spurs fan (which is itself a small lie) he cannot stop grinning at me. I get the same treatment in the cafe on the corner (the one next to the one that Michelle Williams allegedly frequents). Despite always buying whatever is being sold off on the cheap, the owner inevitably greets me like an old friend and asks with a wink about my weekend, as if we'd spent Saturday night downing tequila shots together and scouring the streets of Brooklyn for wasted hipster talent.
But the most embarrassing instance of being unceremoniously out-niced happened yesterday when I got officially busted by my fellow co-operatives. They were so damn reasonable about it that if I were a 1940s cad I would have felt like a right heel. One thing to bear in mind, dear readers, before you unleash the less-than-lovely parts of your personality onto the interweb: you're not being paranoid if they really do have you on google-alert.