Once published, this blog post will be printed off and placed underneath the front door of the flat below which is currently filled with students. The jury is out as to whether I shall then loiter outside with my arms folded looking cross hoping to catch one of them in the act of taking out the rubbish so that I can scowl at them some more (this time minus my fluffy pink dressing gown) or if I should instead just scurry away quickly and hope that they get the message.
You see, last night at around 2am I was awoken by screeching and shouting outside. Fair enough I thought, it’s just people having a laugh and they shouldn’t have to pay for the inadequate noise protection offered by my double glazing.
Then the noise rounded the building and the front door to our flat block was repeatedly slammed open and shut as people came in and out. I shuffled around in bed desperately hoping that this private display of discomfort would some how reach them and they would shut up. Unsurprisingly, this did not work.
Eventually I fell back asleep. However, this was not the end. At around 4am the kerfuffle began again. Shouting. Whooping. Door slamming. By this point, my mild irritation had turned into exasperation and it was only the fact that it was simply too cold outside of the covers that I took no further action other than huff and puff to myself for a while, as is the British way.
5am. The noise is ongoing.
5:30am, my alarm goes off. I don my pink fluffy dressing gown to go to the shower but then I stop and think “No, sod that, these people are animals and I need to notify them of my displeasure.” I am still very much half asleep, owing mostly to my broken slumber.
I knock on the door, not an angry knock, just a quiet succession of polite taps just in case any of them are armed… Before the door has even opened fully, a young looking chap is already apologising profusely at the door while his girlfriend “shhh’s” the lad who appears to be making all the noise behind them.
All I can hear is said cretin exclaiming loudly over and over again “IT’S MY FLAT! IT’S MY FUCKING FLAT AND I’LL DO WHAT I LIKE!” a selection of expletives ensues and he then goes on to re-iterate that it is “MY FUCKING FLAT!”
Now, had I not been suffering from sleep exhaustion I would like to think that my lithe wit would have cut him down to size. In my head it goes something like this:
“Would you mind checking with the gentlemen, who is currently yelling about the fact that it is ‘his flat’, that he understands that the definition of ‘flat’ often means that you have neighbours in close proximity. Perhaps you should suggest that he purchase a large detached property instead so that he can bawl and shout about how he owns that, without waking up everyone within a 10 mile radius. Or… even better… you could advise him that, should he wish to continue his loud discussion over the ownership of said property, he should in fact rent something in outer space where I am reliably informed that no one can hear you scream.”
Instead all I said was “All night? Really?”
Young chap continued to apologise and I slunk back upstairs to enjoy a hot shower and pray that I don’t fall asleep at my desk over lunch.