Some child with a hipster beard moved into the terrace of houses behind me. He has a girl with him. They are completely impervious to the idea of shared space. He wasn't in a wet day when he arrived at my door to ask me to desist feeding birds His beard was visible above the mask
I wondered why throwing bread to a few starving thrushes concerned this lad I have tights older than. I explained it was installed in my muscle memory and to listen to my podcast if he didn't believe me. I was polite and friendly as befits a menopausal dowager with purple hair.
I heard his gf in the yard giving it loads to a dog. Judging by the amount of times she shouted no I ascertained he was in fact named MO. They left him outside to howl all night which started my 2, the 2 next door, the 2 across the road and the one up the street. It was Bedlam.
I ascertained it was a Beagle when the hirsute child walked along the top of the wall like Phillipe Petit to put pegs on a line. I tried to tell him every word can be heard in the yard. That behind the bricks are an entire community of people quietly going about their lives but
He wasn't having a bar of it. Their yard is directly under sheltered accommodation for pensioners and vulnerable adults. A safe space. From sun up till sun down every word the hairy lad and his moth are exchanging can be heard on 3 streets. Their dog training, their phone calls
All of it. As someone reared to be mindful of neighbours, to close doors & windows, not shout on phones outside, I wonder who reared these children to be so entitled, so dismissive, so unaware of social norms, so uncaring of the elderly, so self absorbed that we ALL have to hear. 
They dine Al fresco of an evening. I work from home, my writing, research, recording, podcasting is set against a backdrop of their incessant chatter to their friends as they party and the dogs howl. And I feel sad that I have become "that woman" complaining behind the nets, but
Last night was unreal. A full session at top volume. I stood in my yard in a white fury as it is days before I go onstage and have to rewrite the piece as it has moved to a theatre. I slammed the door. Nada. I opened and closed the windows hard. I called out "lads could you keep
-it down? " My voice hung in the air for a beat. They didn't hear it or completely ignored it I cried out of temper and frustration I cried harder when the music started. They are having a house party. And there's no stopping them now. No one to ring as the Cops are checking pubs
And I feel vulnerable and overwhelmed. Apart from nuisance this is noise pollution. And an entire group of quiet people who never open their mouths are getting into bed while the session continues. I recorded them at midnight. An ace to play when I rang the doorbell today. But it
dawned on me that they just don't care. They just do what they like. They don't give a flying fuck about old people, or maniacs, or babies because they are the centre of their own worlds and I'm just a small oul wan with tiny dogs. Life will alter them. It will carve their faces.
Here they are "singing"
I'm scarlet for them.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
I'm scarlet for them.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
@threadreaderapp please unroll
