They have three things in common; each is of French-Canadian extraction, they both live on the same street as we do, and they share the very same surname. They are not related, however, and their personalities couldn't be more different and nor do they appear to notice one another. Serge lives four houses down from us, on the same side of the street, the other Poirier lives across the street, about three houses further down.

We've known Serge for decades, and consider him a very dear person, a valued neighbour, someone with whom we have shared many thoughts and conversations, and of whom we think kindly. My husband has never had the occasion to actually come across the other man, but I have had on a number of occasions and that only because I've knocked at his door. When I've been doing the annual canvass for one charity or another.

This man takes umbrage at the very fact that anyone would have the temerity to come to his door to address the resident-owner in a language other than French. He invariably scowls and abruptly shuts the door, after declining my offer to relieve him of a small amount of cash in favour of a medical charity. More latterly I've taken to avoiding his door and just move on to the next house.

It doesn't seem as though this man has anything to do with any of his neighbours, anglophone, allophone or francophone. Living the life of a hermit, as far as one can see. One does see him, however, on a daily basis, hovering beside a shrivelled little woman, slowly pushing a walker before her. Obviously his wife, the elderly couple having lived on the street for as long as I can recall; silently, aloof, insular, seemingly resentful of all that surrounds them.

Often, we see them moving slowly by as we prepare to leave for one of our vigorous jaunts in the ravine. They don't in fact, travel along the entire street, traversing usually a ten-house length before returning to their own home, fresh air and exercise exposure accomplished for the day. He is obviously devoted to the tender care of his physically frail wife. Only on two occasions have we ever come abreast of them, and at that time I've extended a greeting, and received a polite-enough acknowledgement, in passable English from the woman. Accompanied by a wan smile.

Serge, on the other had, is now single, and has been for over a decade. He married late, and seems always to have been a bon vivant. His wife was much  younger than him, a pretty woman with two pre-teens when we first knew them. They seemed amicably enough suited to one another, but his incessant social philandering appears to have moved them beyond reconciliation leading to a separation, then a divorce.

Something he has lived to regret as he has admitted on more than one occasion.