| Lullaby |
[Dec. 11th, 2002|11:30 am] |
| [ | Feeling |
| | gloomy | ] |
| [ | Reading |
| | Unholy Trinity, Paul Adam | ] |
So at about five to midnight last night I was all set to write a quick journal note, just so that there would be an entry for yesterday.
It was going to say: "Quiet day. Quiet evening. Bed time - sleep well, all of you."
Didn't quite work out like that.
We have noisy neighbours. The flat that shares a common wall with our bedroom and office is divided into one-room bedsits, all let to a bunch of mates working for immigration services near the airport. The one whose room is by our bedroom likes his music. Sometimes it's audible, sometimes it's loud, sometimes it's very loud and on one memorable occasion he and his mates gathered under our kitchen window and hurled abuse up at us.
Just before midnight the music started. We hammered on the wall twice and it went quiet. Not long afterwards it returned at a level so low that the only circumstances under which you could hear it would be if you lay very still, didn't say anything, and slowed your breathing right down. In other words, if you tried to go to sleep.
The worst thing about the music even when it stops, though, is that you don't know if it will start again at any second. It leaves you on edge for an hour afterwards, waiting and listening.
We have a log of disturbances, dating back over a year now. The letting agents said to keep it. We're not sure why - they don't seem much inclined to take action based on it. They just ineffectively flap their hands a bit every so often.
- * - * - * -
We thought we'd treat ourselves this morning and drive to the station, saving a 20 minute walk in the cold and allowing us to leave a bit later. The car wouldn't start. It almost did, but it wouldn't quite fire up. So I ended up walking anyway, late of course... is there no limit to the new and original ways I can find to fail to make it into work on time? :o( |
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| Someone remembered... |
[Dec. 11th, 2002|01:46 pm] |
There are two bunches of flowers tied to a lamp-post near where the cyclist died... one has a card that says it's from a company with an office nearby. They're small bunches, slumped on the pavement, and the way they're tied on makes it look like whoever left them feared they would be stolen, or blown into the road. They look kind of folorn - it would almost be better if no-one had left any. But at least someone remembered.
And nearby, the phonebox wall is covered in prostitutes' business cards while buses drive in and out of the dark patch on the road where sand still sticks... |
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| Spam-u-like |
[Dec. 11th, 2002|09:57 pm] |
| [ | Feeling |
| | content | ] |
| [ | Reading |
| | Liberal Democrat meeting minutes. Oh joy. | ] |
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But I'm not buying it. |
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