The neighbours are driving me nuts.
You can live with early evenings and late mornings punctuated with loud drunken guffaws.
But the 3, 4, and 5am screaming matches and tipping over metal garden furniture onto brick pavers is seriously un-fun. Especially since their nocturnal playground is directly under our bedroom window.
Usually I crawl out of bed and flash the living room and deck lights on and off until they take the hint. One night my husband stopped me as I was about to climb into their yard in my nightie to join in the shout-fest.
Lately I’m considering taking a leaf out of my dear old Mother’s book.
Years ago, Mum got even with our rude neighbour’s and their foul mouthed eight-year old son who told her; “f*ck-off ya’ol bag” when she asked politely if they would turn down their music a bit.
It was a regular habit of theirs to hang their boom-box on the fence between our houses and leave it blasting away all day even while they were inside. The swearing abuse of their son was a newer development but, hearing the father, not at all surprising.
Well my tiny mum dragged my brother’s enormous home-made guitar amplifier into the garden. Then she ran leads and cables inside to the stereo where she threw on one of Dad’s recordings of the Edinburgh Tattoo. Yeah, we’re talking marching bagpipes. She cranked up the volume and let-em have it.
Two minutes later the boom-box stopped booming but the bagpipes did not. For two more hours she let them know how she felt about their music and their filthy mouths.
If there was an Olympic event for making a point, our Mum would have had a perfect score of 10 for both technical difficulty and creative merit.
So next door we have one lovely mother and her two party-animal-girls who have moved back home. The mum apologises regularly for her ‘noisy girls’ and she needs to. But it doesn’t change the fact that between 3 and 4am is shouting-abuse-at-the-boyfriend hour.
This morning, bleary eyed I’m brushing my teeth and I peer through the venetians at the window across the way. Curtains open, there are two sets of feet tangled in a doona; two blissfully restful sleepers.
Of course they can lie in till 11am – they don’t have a child bouncing on them at 6am, a lunchbox to fill, breakfast to be made, homework to supervise, toileting, dressing, and a mind-bogglingly noisy school drop-off to execute.
Somewhere inside my sleep addled mind a fuse blew.
Before you can say ‘rinse and floss’ I’d down-loaded Scotland the Brave on iTunes and plugged my phone into the biggest speaker I could find in the house.
And that was the beginning of my noisy neighbours’ new morning alarm. I left the bagpipes full volume on loop for 15 minutes and just as the tangle of bedding stopped shifting – yes I was intermittently spying – just to confuse them I threw in some of Justin Beiber’s Christmas album (nice little rap-remix of the drummer boy) but still punctuated with Bagpipes.
When I staggered back from the school run, yawning enough for a jaw dislocation, there was still peace and tranquility going on at the noisy neighbours’.
So I went into the shed and got out the leaf blower which I left running under their bedroom window to further make my point.