Recently my next door neighbours had some loud sex. Moo was napping, and I was blogging, so I could hear it. They both seemed happy, which was nice. Then, once the loud sex was finished, they made bacon sandwiches. I know this cos I smelt the bacon frying. I really hope they washed their hands before they did the cooking, but y’know, when you’re in the throes of decadent passion, maybe that’s not something you consider so much.
I also hear my other neighbour shrieking at her children. One of the children is learning to play the trumpet. The shrieking and the trumpeting is possibly connected, I dunno. I certainly feel like shrieking when that farking trumpet starts up. Learn to play something other than Twinkle Twinkle Cunting Star, FFS.
My house is uber-small. It’s like a flat, but on two levels, so it’s a house, but small, like a flat. So small. Downstairs, it’s one room wide. So – potentially – I could have bacon-sex one side and trumpet-angst the other, simultaneously. The mind boggles. Well, actually, my mind protests quite clearly, and refrains from boggling. I’ve always been vaguely claustrophobic, and alarmingly, it seems like the walls are closing in.
I feel like I have no privacy. Both neighbours have someone home during the day, so if I’m in the house, I can hear them, both sides, hoovering, or coughing, or running down the stairs (do y’have to run? Really? Down the stairs? All the time? Really? Running? Cos you might fall and BREAK YOUR STUPID NECK, fool) or cooking, or talking on the phone, or doing EVERYTHING, EVER.
And yeah, they can hear me and Moo, I’m sure. I wonder if they sit there and roll their eyes, saying ‘Oh, the baby’s crying again’ or ‘Oh, she’s crying again’ or ‘Oh, she’s singing along to A-ha again’ or ‘Oh, she’s wanking again’. Not that I wank particularly loudly. But, y’know. I bet they listen, hands cupped to the wall, and then high-five each other and revel in their smug pork-based fornication. Bah.
Within my home I fare no better. Moo can be a clingy little mare on occasion and sometimes doesn’t want me to leave the room without her. Therefore if I wish to defecate, I have to do so with a tiny companion in tow. And she doesn’t let me do it in peace. No way. She brings me offerings, from my bedroom. Hairspray, jewellery, cotton wool, shoes, tampons. It all gets laid at my feet, or in my lap, as I’m trying to squeeze one out without rupturing a pile, or prolapsing my colon, which, y’know, I’m really keen NOT to do. Quite distracting. The other day, I was ceremoniously given all these delightful gifts and more, and then swiftly divested of the loo roll, which was kind of the only thing I wanted in the world, at that precise moment.
One day – ONE DAY – I would like to shit in peace, without the contents of my make-up bag being deposited in the knickers around my ankles. One day, I would like to have a cathartic cry, hooping and wailing, without my neighbours calling social services. One day, I would also like to bring myself to a very loud orgasm without my neighbours politely applauding from three foot away, innit.
Do you know your neighbours more intimately than you’d perhaps care to? Or do you find it hard to escape from your kids and attend a call of nature on your own, for once?
And more importantly, does anyone have a nice big detached house I can live in, please?