It is now 20:58 London time. That means 8:58 for those of you who can’t read military/24-hour time. Oh and if you can’t you should learn it because it is a useful skill. That and my seven-year-old can do it so I think you can too.
So anyhow I put the kids to bed and one of them is blissfully asleep. The other is at least lying quietly in bed. I finally get some alone adult time to deal with the pile of crap that I haven’t dealt with, sip some ginger-lemon tea (which I was off after three AC treatments but now that I no longer associate ginger with anti nausea remedies am back on occasionally) and relax.
But wait, there’s a fly in my ointment. It’s the fucking dude who thinks it is a swell idea to play his guitar at this time, either outside or so close to an open window that he might as well be. He just “did” Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door. He definitely got that one lyric down. Other than that I can’t say much for his playing. Or singing.
Let me be honest. I am a nice person. A tolerant person. But I do not want to listen to mediocre guitar-playing outside my window at nine o’clock at night. I am tired and I want peace and quiet. I am taking a train to Paris tomorrow evening with the kids, for crying out loud and this noise is not helping me think or chill.
I wonder if it is the hot guy next door who has been doing weird things to his bicycle wheels every time I pass by. I don’t care if he is hot. He is still pissing me off. In fact, if he is hot it makes me even madder because then he probably feels entitled to be a public nuisance due to his hotness.
I may have to get medieval on his ass. I mean, we are in the old country here. I think I will boil me up a cauldron of oil and get a big ladle and dump the shit on him from the top floor. Either that or take a considerably large pair of hedge clippers and go out there, bald, of course, or maybe with a doo-rag on looking all gangsta with my stank face on, and snip those sorry guitar strings in two (and whatever fingers happen to get in the way in protest).
I suppose I could also just go out there and see if I can spot him and politely but firmly ask him to stop playing. Or to go inside or shut the window. But what if the answer is “no?” I don’t think that would be good for my mental health or his physical health. So instead here I sit blogging about it. Lame.
It’s sort of fun, though, to focus my energy on the idea of killing something else tonight.