Thunderbox grinding-sounds ooze through the thin walls. Another morning lost to the sounds of coitus emanating from the room next door: this time it’s a Thursday. Rising with Praise-era Peter Fenton languidness and leaning against the wall to better imagine the giggling couple next door, and sighing.
Travelling through the cracks in the plaster, between the molecules of brick and cement, you can find the couple busy at work, trying it on. A baby monitor on the bedside table is tuned to a nursery down the hall, but the possibility of interruption is small as adequate distraction has been found: the baby lined up its gums square against the kiwi fruit and sucked, enjoying the tickling sensation caused by the fur on the fruit. The trick always worked.
An angry note is drafted, drafted and written, settling on blunt paralipsis to get the message across: “It would be crude of me to mention that your constant fucking is keeping me awake. Signed, your neighbour.”“Your neighbour,” is chosen amongst several options, best chance at plausible deniability. No need for bad blood, after all, there’s enough of that at work. Too much blood, too. Like last week – Thursday, in fact – coming home and finding a car spun out and on the bad side of a tree. Inside, two bodies covered in blood, but it looked like one of those clichéd red and white checked Italian tablecloths. Call an ambulance and wait.
Written on Tuesday, 27 September 2011