My neighbours, on the other hand, seem to have adopted the same approach while choosing to be night creatures. This week I've averaged about four hours sleep a night, and with each successive broken snooze I can feel my sanity slipping a little further from my grasp. As I lay in bed last night, alternating between despair and murderous intent, I formulated a plan, which I have put into place today. To wit, I have complained to their real estate agent and the police and my next stop will be the council and I'll keep up this campaign of harassment and vilification until they're quiet, or evicted. Either one suits me.
I have become a complaining woman. But this blog has given me five years of solid training so who amongst us is really surprised that I've now taken my carefully honed skills out into the real world?
This morning, though, I thought I'd get things kicked off with a slightly more personal touch. The shenanigans finally wound down at about 8am and I decided to hang around at home for another hour. I figured an hour would give them just enough time to slip reasonably deeply into precious slumber. Then I went to their front door and I began knocking and knocking and knocking until, after several minutes, a couple of them finally staggered to the door.
"Oh, did I wake you up?!"
[hurt, offended, confused] "Ugh, well, yeah."
I doubt we'll be exchanging gardening tips over the fence anytime soon and I can't say I'm too sorry.
Howdily doodily, neighbourinos! I'm the anti-Ned Flanders.