I knew this was going to happen.

Fifteen months after leaving the city and settling up there in Hummerville, I actually know a few people. Neighbors. Little G’s friends’ parents that turned up at his birthday party last week. That sort of thing.

One of the things I’ve actually liked about commuting is that I don’t know a soul on the train: No one to pretend I don’t see on the platform in the morning, no one to make small talk with or, egad!, share a seat with as we schlep to or from the city. I just want to be alone with the expensive Bose headphones, Crackberry, NY Times.

But twice this week, I’ve been called out by these new acquaintances on board. They’re seemingly terrific guys — smart, interesting, even urbane. But I’d rather just stay in my Syd Barrett-esque cocoon when I’m on the train. It’s how I cope.

And as the Missus and I creep closer towards being Pillars of Our Community in the coming years, it’s only going to get worse.  Little G’s school mates! His soccer pals! The Missus volunteering for the bake sale! (OK, that may never happen) .

Consider me outed.