The Loud Neighbour     

By
Paul Golden

He began to doze in front of the TV and he knew it was time to make a start on the nightly ritual which would see him in bed within 30 minutes.

Dinner utensils cleaned and tidied away, bathroom routine concluded, livingroom set to darkness,  front door locked and to the bedroom.

It had been a long day, though he had been busy throughout he didn’t have that feeling of satisfied accomplishment and there were many things occupying his mind so that he knew it would be difficult to drift off to sleep tonight.

He sprinkled lavender oil on the pillow and switched on the small tv, volume low, and set the timer for 30 minutes, it would help him drift off if he wasn’t thinking about other things. His mind was racing tonight.

Gradually, he felt himself sinking as he listened to the hushed tones of the newsreader, he turned into his pillow and allowed his mind to float to the dark emptiness of sleep.

“Shut bleedin’ up you assholes!!!” His brain shook him awake to the sudden shouting, outside his window. Oh god that neighbour is off again shouting at people in the street, and they, in turn, were naturally laughing at him. He reached out for his mobile, 3:30am!

Without getting up to investigate he knew the exact details of the scene. The neighbour one storey directly below him would be hanging out his window, in some sort of T-shirt – his stocky  build, unshaven face and characteristically bleary eyed from his habitual  2 litre evening cider consumption -  roaring at some confused, and doubtless bemused tourists, who, in all probability, were not making all that much noise to begin with. Most likely on their way back to their hotel, this was Bloomsbury afterall, they made the unfortunate error in stopping just within earshot of number 64’s window.

As he lay there, he could hear the external giggling, and muffled comment “Que te zurzan!” – Spanish tourists, then the unmistakeable, yet all too predictable, clank of metal crashing against pavement – number 64 would now be hurling the metal tops of beer bottles at the onlookers in gentle persuasion for them to move on.

“Go on get out of here, some of us are trying to sleep you assholes, or I’ll f…n come down and sort you out, you f…n bastards!!” The sash window crashed down, hopefully bringing an end to the episode.

It was bizarre how number 64 could detect the faintest conversation 4 stories below at street level, yet each evening, all evening long, ostensibly had difficulty hearing his own TV.

Indeed, some of us are trying to sleep he thought and knew it would take another 30 minutes before he could regain his unconsciousness. He knew he would not be refreshed the following morning, the start of yet another long day!