Behind enemy lines: neighbours from hell

I thought I could handle it.

I thought I could cope.

I thought, perhaps somewhat foolishly, looking back now, that some of The Beloved’s seemingly infinite reserves of patience and tolerance had rubbed off on to me, magically replenishing my non-existent inherited reserves of said traits.

I write to say that, in fact, my reserves of patience, tolerance and compassionate love for mankind remain at their usual stark, below-standard levels, regardless of The Beloved.

It pains me to say so, given that I would really, really *like* to like people in general. Honestly. I would.

So I am blaming my neighbours.

My EXTREMELY LOUD, GAY PAN PIPE PLAYING NEIGHBOURS.

They are not making it very easy for me to feel empathy and compassion for mankind in general because I HATE THEM.

I am quite sure that if I met any of these devil’s spawn doling out soup and bread rolls for the poor or short ten cents at the tram stop that I’d think they were just lovely, what with hearts all in the right places and Nobel Peace Prizes and the like.

But when they move in to the house next to me and INSIST on playing Buena Vista Social Club repeatedly at the highest possible volume, just to make sure they’re doing their community service and allowing the poor saps at the other end of the street to appreciate Ry Cooder’s work with those groovy old Latin dudes as well as their next door neighbours, I’m going to dislike them rather intensely.

I might even go so far as to say that I will resent them most thoroughly for ruining my Saturday and Sunday morning P & Q, and for ruining my Saturday and Sunday afternoon P & Q, and my sleep at about 1am during the working week.

They are the enemy, and there’s only one rule about enemies (other than that stupid one about keeping them closer than your friends, which, if you think about it is just plain DUMB, because who in their right mind would want to keep someone who plays gay pan pipes at some OUTRAGEOUS VOLUME at all hours of the morning/afternoon/evening THAT close to them?) and that rule is to scheme for some very nasty vengeance to come their way. Via me.

Yes, yes. Yeeeeesssssss, I shall continue to resent, dislike, fume, roar disapproval, sulk, cry and pout at having to leave MY OWN HOUSE JUST TO STOP LISTENING TO THAT FUCKING THUMP-THUMP-THUMP COMING THROUGH THE WALLS AND INVADING MY SPACE AND HEARING.

But will I go round there and tell them in no uncertain terms to shut the bloody hell up and if they don’t let them know they won’t enjoy the consequences?

Will I bollocks.

That’s what the cops are for.

I have tried, believe me, I have tried. I have done everything but stick my fingers in my ears like a three year old and chant TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA-NOT-LISTENING-NOT-LISTENING.

I have tried to be Zen-Jen, and concentrate on other things and not let the gay pan-pipes and the seven-hour-long bongo drum practice sessions (if only I was joking! SEVEN hours. Who can do ANYTHING for seven hours in a row?) get to me. Tried to see it as a nice little musical treat as I’m hanging out the washing ignoring the continuing degradation of my eardrums.

Oh, how I’ve tried.

I’ve tried leaving music on in our house, to mask theirs. The Beloved has suggested wearing earplugs at night for sleeping.

But frankly, I shouldn’t have to leave music on in my own house to drown out that of the next-door-neighbours and nor should I have TO WEAR EARPLUGS TO GET TO SLEEP ON A WEEK NIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING SUBURBIA.

The Beloved and I have spent many an hour dreaming of ways in which we shall exact revenge, some of which involve death and dismemberment and the notification of all news media outlets of our community service, but none of which would be necessary if either of us had the guts to go over and have That 30 Second Conversation that no-one wants to have with their neighbours, particularly if you’re just over 30 and feeling like you’re actually starting to age and the neighbours are clearly in their early 20s and invincible.

That Conversation goes thusly:

“Hello, I’m from next door. Could you turn your music down, please? We’d appreciate some peace and quiet and your music is too loud. Thank you.”

Hello, I am now officially Old.

Ah, the sounds of silence. I remember those days. The days when I'd hear silence and immediately insist on playing music to cover it up. Oh! How things have changed! But I'm old(er), now, see, and that means I'm entitled to change my mind. I'll take silence any day, these days.

Some days are better than others, like those days when I’m at work all day and Carlton’s a bit too far out of range for their super-strength stereo system. Or the days when they’re out of the house and everyone else on the street breathes a sigh of relief, barely daring to believe the sweet sounds of silence that have just graced the block until their car turns the corner and we all realise that The Noisy Neighbours have just been around the corner for a booze run, and it means there’ll be Yet Another All Night Party Involving Table Tennis Tournaments And Very Loud Gay Pan Pipes Music And Bemused Police Turning Up At Five AM.

See, I think maybe a part of me wouldn’t mind if it was AC/DC or Thin Lizzy being played at excessively loud volumes at the occasional Saturday night soiree. After all, everyone in Australia knows that it’s not a party ‘til the cops come.

If you’re going to cause a ruckus, I say, do it with good, old fashioned, ruckus-making music. Like AC/DC. Or Jimi Hendrix. Or Wolfmother. Or Led Zeppelin. Something actually worth ruining your relationships with mankind; worth destroying your speaker system when you crank the volume past ten.

But for the love of humanity, don't make it pan pipes, don't make it EVERY BLOOMIN' WEEKEND and certainly don't make it the Buena Vista Social Club EVERY DAMN WEEKEND, which everyone on THIS block has heard blaring out from Number 30 about 75 million times in the past month, which is about 75 million times too many, especially when you’re not actually IN Latin America sitting on a front veranda, overlooking the ocean drinking gin and tonics but in downtown suburban Melbourne JUST LOOKING FOR SOME PEACE AND QUIET ALREADY.

If you’re going to get the cops to come, do it with flair, I say. A loud, melodic, amp-ruining, ten-minute lead guitar flourish. Then maybe I’ll only hate you begrudgingly, instead of wholeheartedly wishing plague and ruin upon you and yours.

Every day I get up thinking, today is going to be the day they leave off the choons, surely.

And every day once the thumping begins again I resign myself to thinking that today will be the day I tell them to turn it off before I slash their tires and leave raw eggs in their letter box. Or pour olive oil all over their windscreen. Or unplug the mains. Or something.

Anything, really, to get them to turn it off.

Anything except the only adult, mature thing to do, which is to knock on their door and say, “Hello, I’m from next door. Could you turn your music down, please, before I smash in all the windows on your car and leave dog turd in your letter box? Thanks ever so much … oh, and by the way, if you turn it up ever again we’ll bury you alive in our back garden! Cheers!”

Whoops. What I meant was, “Hello, we’re from next door. Could you please turn your music down? We’d appreciate some peace and quiet and your music is too loud. Thank you.”

That’s for the cops to do.