Poor Stevie

November 2009 archive

get off

For a couple of weeks now, J-man and I have been trying to think of ways to tell our neighbours to shut the hell up.

We’re not totally sure how many people live in the house next door but there’s always two people around – one very camp man, who should have been an opera singer because his voice carries like a sneaky parp after bad Vindaloo, and a woman. The house has a beautiful, leafy courtyard and it appears to be the perfect place to drink, blast music, cry and have very loud private conversations until 2am on any given day. I have yelled out ‘turn it down’, pointedly slammed my window closed and sulked myself to sleep with earplugs fashioned from toilet paper on several occasions. But they just haven’t got the message.

So while I’ve been lying in bed listening to U2, The Police, Beyonce and Robbie Williams against my will, I’ve been mentally writing them a little note. I figure if I wrote it, I’d be polite as possible to avoid any neighbourly tension.

It would go a little something like this:

Dear neighbour,

It sounds like you host some pretty sweet parties and you’re certainly making the most of the great weather! We don’t mean to be the neighbourhood party police, but we were wondering if you could keep the volume down at night. Both of us work odd hours and have often had trouble getting to sleep with your music up so loud. We’d really appreciate it.

Thanks,

Your neighbours.

But there are some days when I’ve thought instead about setting fire to said polite letter and going on a homicidal rampage. Today was one of those homicidal days. Not only were our good friends up until about midnight singing along drunkenly to Sting,  they were up again at 6am chatting very loudly about their fabulously boring plans. God, it’s enough to make you want to commit an indictable offence with a red hot skewer.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re all: “Dude, you’re 23 you should be over there with them, drinking them all under the table and providing them with the best Hawaiian bammy you’ve got”. Well, I don’t have any “bammy”. I have a job, some serious mood issues, a regularly upset stomach and, surprisingly, very few people to hang out with. Part of me does feel a little lame for being so angry about it, but I just think it shows so little respect and consideration. Oh God, now you’ve made me burn the Jam Drops I had in the oven.

Anyhoot, you can imagine how I felt this afternoon when I came home from a spot of Christmas shopping, only to again hear the familiar sounds of Bono. As I chopped up some fresh fruit, I thought about the four old ladies who live downstairs and how much it must ruin their quiet Saturday afternoons too. Then I heard something that made me gag on my mango. A woman moaning, grunting and wailing – the same noises I make when I’m eating a beef burger at The Counter with a side of onion rings. After some more listening, it became obvious the moans had less to do with onion rings and more to do with … sausage. I couldn’t believe it. As a people-watching fanatic, this was my dream come true. So I quickly bounded to the window, where I could get a better view and, sure enough, through the leaves I could see the faint outline of the mythical beast with two backs. Or as I put it to J-man in a frantic text message when he asked me how I knew they were doing it: I went to eavesdrop and could see some flesh bouncing around in the bushes.

So J and I have come to a consensus in the last hour. We will discretely drop some raw chicken in their backyard and let it sit in the sun. After all, who wants to play hide the sausage when you can smell rotting meat.