Well, I’m about ready to murder my upstairs neighbours right now.
For the past month or so, R and I have had to deal with a newlywed couple moving in upstairs and listen to their perpetual stomping, slamming, sexing and their dancing gangnam style at 1am.
And tonight we are being treated to blasting love ballads that sound like the backing vocals from bad Christian rock music.
It’s bloody awful.
Nothing seems to shut them up either.
In fact, I resorted to hunting out R’s laptop speakers, plugging them in, holding them up to the ceiling and blasting “Killing in the name of”.
Absolutely no response.
This is after one evening where I was made an involuntary auditory voyeur to their honeymoon period sex. For hours.
I mean….kudos on all the sex. And well done hunting out a partner who can go for that long.
But dear Lord, shut the hell up.
It just so happened that when I was experiencing my first taste of voyeurism, R was back home for a few days and listening to their hetero humping was making me feel sad and lonely…and a little grossed out.
It was sweet when they tried to apologise to us by bringing us brownies made from chocolate and guilt, after I’d spent an evening complaining at them, but I’d much rather skip the treats and have some much loved (and missed) silence instead.
I feel like an old craggy Grandmother who keeps shouting at kids to keep the noise down. I felt like my Father the other week when I was complaining at them and I used his favourite phrase “you sound like you’re about to come through the ceiling”.
But you know what I’ve realised? I refuse to be ashamed of my premature mental aging. I like gin. And knitting. And a good documentary. And I just can’t resist a good thick woolly cardigan.
I’m out, old and proud.
Now turn off that darned music!