Neighbours and their Parties

I’m pretty sure it’s the guy upstairs’ birthday.

My belief is well-founded, really. Since 5pm my ceiling has been thumping, creaking, rattling and shouting drunken nonsense at me all to the backing of Paolo Nutini’s latest collection of raspy shite. His girlfriend absolutely loves Paolo Nutini, which is a shame because I’m not his biggest fan. She puts it on whenever she hoovers, does the dishes, goes for a shower or gets out of bed. She sings along to him too. Suffice to say that this lassy will not be seeing the signature-end of a recording contract any time soon.

I write the first entry to my fancy new blog at 05:12am and I’m more or less in what special forces call the ‘drone zone’. (I read that term in a book)

It’s not fair to chastise them, really. They’re only a few years older than me and since it’s the guys birthday – they’ve sang ‘Happy Birthday’ three times – I don’t want to be the dickhead who ruins their fun. The thing is, when we throw parties they tend to die out around 3-4am and at the back of five in the morning theirs is still full swing. They’re a lovely couple, seriously. Perhaps a bit rustic at times. He has lots of big burly mates in tracksuits and when she walks down the stairs in the close she leaves a smell of cheap perfume and vodka. It’s better than the smell that I leave: eau du chain-smoker.

Folks Upstairs

A biased representation of our neighbours

They have a little baby and she’s a gorgeous wee thing but she’s at that ‘crying’ stage where the slightest noise that we make down here sets her off for hours during the night. In fact, when I pop outside for a smoke I literally edge the door open by the centimetre to avoid waking her up. They also don’t tie their bin bags. That means their rubbish ends up strewn around the wheelie-bin area. A lovely field of used nappies, Burger King wrappers and Irn Bru bottles.
Why am I complaining?
Because I’m a miserable fucking bastard and I’m just gutted that I have nothing better to do on a Saturday night other than write about my distaste for other people having fun.
To be fair, though, they were very understanding in August when I set our kitchen on fire and had to evacuate the whole block of flats at 2am on a Monday night.
Not that it was intentional or anything.
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