The people who live in the parallel flat in the house across the road from me are wonderfully vibrant people. I sometimes look out of my window to see them dancing around their sitting room, often with a large number of chums. They have energetic Wii sessions and like a bit of a drink. They're like Jamie Oliver's pretend advert friends, with added bonhomie.
The only problem is that whenever I'm watching them cavort about I tend to be sad. Sad because it's 3am on a Tuesday and I've been lying awake listening to them shrieking at each other, even though there's two sets of windows and and AN ENTIRE FUCKING STREET between us. As I start another doleful midnight surveillance I'm always amazed that there isn't a trickle of blood seeping out of each of their trendy earholes - it must be like the inside of a 747 engine in there.
I slept through it last night, although my girlfriend didn't. Apparently I woke up sufficiently to mutter "bastards".
It's fun terrorism. It's a huge game of uptight chicken - who on the street will crack first and blu-tac a passive-aggressive note to their intercom? Or even march up to the door in their dressing gown and hem hem a "Do you know what time it is"? Not me - I'm a cowardly mouse of a man. If I complain they might go insane on recreational drugs, drag me into their flat and slaughter me on the Twister mat. Or wait until I've gone to work and butter the steps to my front door.
So I'll bide my time. They have to move out sooner or later.
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