A well deserved night off this evening. I had planned to sit and work on a draft of the show I’ll be taking to Edinburgh this year, I have the flat to myself and nothing to do but work.
And after dinner I did indeed work…and bloody hard, I was lost in my own little world of writing. All was good, all was fine.
Now, my nextdorr neightbour is very quiet, this is good becuase our walls are very thin, every monring, as regular as clockwork, just after my alarm goes off I hear her plugging something in on her side. I don’t want to guess what it is, a kettle, an iron, possibly an iron lung…though I think they need to be plugged in overnight.
This was not really a good night for her to choose to be loud…but she wasn’t aware of this future notblog and so decided to choose this night to be loud.
She got in at about half nine…I heard the door go. Ih eard osmething get plugged in…seconds later her stereo was playing. It was Frank Sinatra, turned up to at least 11.
My cup of tea was rippling like that bit in Jurassic Park. Only it was not a T Rex approaching, but the sound waves of a much earlier style of singing (earlier than Marc Bolan’s T. Rex, obviously. Although Frank was going for a while, even his people would find it hard to stretch his career to Triassic times).
But, I like Sinatra, so I turn off my music and listen to hers, the joke is on her. I am saving electric, she is playing me music and I’ll bet she hasn’t got an entertainment license. But I don’t ring the council, I’m not a vindictive type.
I get back to work.
A few minutes later the screeching starts. It seems that there were at least three of them in there, all very, very drunk and singing along at the top of their voices to Sinatra.
None of them can sing.
It was like listening to a T.Rex (Not Marc Bolan, I like that T.Rex)