It is the middle of the night, and my delightful neighbours have returned home to have a fight.
They’ve been so happy for the past few weeks, too. I’ve hardly heard a peep from them, other than the occasional civil conversation and the odd peal of laughter, and sure who could complain about that? But alas! – the ceasefire has expired and the slamming of the door simultaneously wakes me up and plunges me into deep despair.
AwwwwwawwwwwAWWWWWWW! goes Yer One. AwwwwWAHHHHHHawwwwww.
Muttermuttermutter, responds Himself. Grunt.
AwwwwwEHHHHHHwahhhhhAWWWWWWWW! adds Yer One.
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I contribute mildly from underneath my pillow.
The “conversation” proceeds in this manner until I actually lose my mind. This is when it becomes clear to me that the only possible response is to complain to them in the only language that they seem capable of understanding: noise.
Which is why, at 2 o’clock on a Monday morning, and with deep feelings of regret towards the other residents of the building, I stumble blearily from my warm bed, pick up my guitar, and begin playing Lemon Tree as loudly as I can strum without making my fingers bleed.
I have the disturbing feeling of floating up out of my body and watching like an interested and curious spectator as a crazy woman with mad hair sits in the darkness, thumping at guitar strings with something amounting to fury, and singing “I wonder how, I wonder why…”.
Silence suddenly descends on the apartment next door.
“…yesterday you told me ’bout the blue, blue sky….”, belts out the Crazy Woman.
The girl next door screams something that doesn’t sound as if she is entirely pleased with this turn of events. I don’t understand it all, but I gather that she would prefer it if the impromptu concert were to cease.
“…but all that I can see…”, I continue regardless.
The man next door thumps on the wall, clearly unhappy about his no longer being the noisiest apartment in the building. He, too, shouts something uncomplimentary about my guitar-playing skills, or my singing, I’m not sure which.
“…is just ANOTHER LEMON TREE!!!!” I howl nonsensically.
There is utter silence. I sit there in adrenaline-and-rage-fueled tension, squinting crazily at the wall. There is some muttering. And then, ladies and gentlemen, the neighbours leave their apartment, slamming their door behind them, and go outside to continue their argument in an environment free of insane guitar-playing foreigners who react really strangely to being woken up by a bit of harmless howling in the middle of the night.
I have won.
And it feels fabulous, darlings.