Sunday Cacophony
Many of you don't know this, but I usually save Sunday mornings for writing. I try to, anyway, as 'the novel' doesn't seem to, despite my best intentions, seem to be writing itself. I try to get up earlyish -- around eight-thirty or nine -- and if I can write for a complete half hour I feel quite accomplished. The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.
So, on weekends when we're not raging on the Tube, I try to leave the rest of the party people to close out the bars, and get some sleep with a hope of putting together enough brain cells for the morning. As you might guess from the appearance of this missive, something went wrong today.
Roused from my Sunday bed, there was a thunderous noise in the stairwell this morning. Those of you who haven't yet found 6 Essex Court on a treasure map (seriously, it's not easy, even when you have the directions) know that the building has a central, echoey stairwell. Someone clomping up and down it in work boots will definitely wake anyone who's not dead to the world. Unfortunately, that includes me on a Sunday morning.
It seems that, based on the fact that our building is to have all the windows replaced, and is therefore covered in scaffolding, the new neighbour in number three took the chance to get satellite TV installed. Access to the roof is never difficult, but I'm sure it seemed to him like fortuitous timing.
Cut from loud discussions in the stairwell (what, were his boots too dirty to let him into your flat?) and more clomping. Then some clanging on the scaffolds; it was about now that I realised what was going on. I was pissed off, but not apoplectic.
Then the drilling, and sawing. I pulled on some polite enough clothes, and went into the stairwell to find the neighbour to number five also there, in his rockstar jeans and no shirt look. Seriously, he's a rock star. I took a little walk to number three, and gave them the cop knock.
No answer. Good God, he seriously believed that if he hid, no one would say anything. Cop knock two produced results, in the form of a stammering neighbour. The exchange went something like this (please insert stammering as you find amusing):
TTM: It's seven thirty on a Sunday. Why would you have builders come at seven thirty on a Sunday?
SN: They just showed up, they said any time today, they called me at six.
TTM: You should have sent them away. Why didn't you send them away?
SN: I couldn't do that: it would have cost £30!
TTM stares with a certain cold incredulity. Anger has robbed him of the power of speech.
SN: I'm sorry, I apologise, I didn't know they would drill, they say it will only be another five minutes....
TTM turns and walks away
TTM: I'm not very impressed.
If you know me, you know that I cannot stand people who are petty, or cheap. The £30 nearly sent me over the edge. Inconsiderate to your neighbours on the back of £30? Seriously. A bottle of wine for every flat in the building is also probably beyond the budget. I'm sure they'll just try to pretend it didn't happen -- and that even now, I'm the asshole in number three. Not that I'm unused to that title, but still.
So here I am, pissed off, and blocked for the time, with a long walk with Ramsay coming up any time now. After the walk I'm walking more with Kim, and then dinner with the Wagner/Wilmore clan and il Monsignor. I'm sure it'll be a good Sunday, but the start was a bit rocky.
So, on weekends when we're not raging on the Tube, I try to leave the rest of the party people to close out the bars, and get some sleep with a hope of putting together enough brain cells for the morning. As you might guess from the appearance of this missive, something went wrong today.
Roused from my Sunday bed, there was a thunderous noise in the stairwell this morning. Those of you who haven't yet found 6 Essex Court on a treasure map (seriously, it's not easy, even when you have the directions) know that the building has a central, echoey stairwell. Someone clomping up and down it in work boots will definitely wake anyone who's not dead to the world. Unfortunately, that includes me on a Sunday morning.
It seems that, based on the fact that our building is to have all the windows replaced, and is therefore covered in scaffolding, the new neighbour in number three took the chance to get satellite TV installed. Access to the roof is never difficult, but I'm sure it seemed to him like fortuitous timing.
Cut from loud discussions in the stairwell (what, were his boots too dirty to let him into your flat?) and more clomping. Then some clanging on the scaffolds; it was about now that I realised what was going on. I was pissed off, but not apoplectic.
Then the drilling, and sawing. I pulled on some polite enough clothes, and went into the stairwell to find the neighbour to number five also there, in his rockstar jeans and no shirt look. Seriously, he's a rock star. I took a little walk to number three, and gave them the cop knock.
No answer. Good God, he seriously believed that if he hid, no one would say anything. Cop knock two produced results, in the form of a stammering neighbour. The exchange went something like this (please insert stammering as you find amusing):
TTM: It's seven thirty on a Sunday. Why would you have builders come at seven thirty on a Sunday?
SN: They just showed up, they said any time today, they called me at six.
TTM: You should have sent them away. Why didn't you send them away?
SN: I couldn't do that: it would have cost £30!
TTM stares with a certain cold incredulity. Anger has robbed him of the power of speech.
SN: I'm sorry, I apologise, I didn't know they would drill, they say it will only be another five minutes....
TTM turns and walks away
TTM: I'm not very impressed.
If you know me, you know that I cannot stand people who are petty, or cheap. The £30 nearly sent me over the edge. Inconsiderate to your neighbours on the back of £30? Seriously. A bottle of wine for every flat in the building is also probably beyond the budget. I'm sure they'll just try to pretend it didn't happen -- and that even now, I'm the asshole in number three. Not that I'm unused to that title, but still.
So here I am, pissed off, and blocked for the time, with a long walk with Ramsay coming up any time now. After the walk I'm walking more with Kim, and then dinner with the Wagner/Wilmore clan and il Monsignor. I'm sure it'll be a good Sunday, but the start was a bit rocky.