My Neighbours

I live in a two-bedroom apartment in a block of six units. All of the units are occupied by women. Horrifying enough in itself, there are at least a dozen different ways that these women make my life a living hell.

The woman who is my next door neighbour is a night-shift nurse at the local hospital. She leaves for work around 10pm and returns around 7am, all day every day. Nothing to moan about yet, until one is met with her daily departure and arrival habits. For some inexplicable reason, this woman practices her tennis swing on her front and back doors, every time she leaves or comes home. I have no doubt that my whole street is alerted to her presence, either coming or going, and I can imagine them all nodding in unison when they hear her doors slamming: ‘Oh yes, the woman in number 6 is back again.’ This woman puts her hear and soul into slamming a door, and she’s getting better. Every Saturday morning, circa 7am, I am woken by the familiar sound of her door. Better than any alarm clock ever made, I am often left enraged and prone to a bout of swearing and dedicated shuffling around the house trying to find a notepad so I can write her a note once and for all and tell her that unless she stops slamming her stupid doors every morning then I am complaining to the landlord and she’ll be evicted before she has time to slam another door. This is my usual Saturday morning routine, and each week I promise myself that I’ll endure it just one more time before I slip that note under her poor and abused door.

My downstairs neighbour woman is a hopeful opera singer. By hopeful I mean she’s been to one audition, was rejected, came home, cried (loudly) and then decided she’s giving up opera to become a pop singer. Becoming a pop singer for her means supporting herself through the process, and she does this by holding singing lessons, every night of the working week from 4pm to 7pm. By now, I have learnt the voices of all her students (and given them all accordingly-fitting nicknames because, let’s face it, they all suck) and become accustomed to not being able to watch TV, talk on the phone or read during the hours of 4pm and 7pm. But recently, she has decided that she’s extending her lesson time until 10pm. So now, after a hard day at work, I come home to six morons singing flatly. And don’t for one second underestimate the power that a badly-made apartment block has in carrying decibels through flooring.

Solution?

I'm thinking about the M word. A lot.