Ah, summer. The sweet sound of birds singing, the dulcet ringing of drilling, the musical noise of builders burping. Oh, how I love the wonderful cacophony of sounds that drift through our open windows -- not! With each and every one of my neighbours seemingly embarking on a renovation project this summer, I am about to lose my mind.
I live in a row of Victorian terraces that backs onto another row of Victorian terraces, parallel to ours, with only small gardens in the middle. This means we have a perfect conduit for all the sounds of the neighbourhood to travel, ricochet and echo their way up and down the red-bricked exteriors of the buildings, straight to my ears. Even without the constant drilling, it can be a bit trying at times.
There's the neighbour who lets his dog out three times a day to bark, endlessly, at God knows what. There's the American couple who live somewhere nearby, having a BBQ in their courtyard each and every day the sun makes an appearance -- nearly smoking us out of the flat. The family torturing their children with French lessons; the birthday party with 50 screaming kids; the graduation do where for some reason, they just couldn't seem to stop playing Deacon Blue... and on, and on.
Add tooth-jarringly-loud drilling to the mix and you get one crazed writer! And so to my drilling friends all around the block: please, I beg you, have mercy. Co-ordinate all your drilling to the hours between 10 and 12. Then let me have the rest of the day in peace. Deal?
I thought not.