Our band’s first rehearsal lasted almost one song, this Thursday night. Shortly beforehand I had toured the little corner of our close, ringing doorbells, checking noise levels, assuring people they only had to come a-gently rapping, rapping at our garage door, and we’d happily compromise. But in the end a big whirl of self-entitled parenthood from miles away—and hence not forewarned of the racket that might be clattering round, nor of the willingness to communicate on the part of the racket-makers—descended on us like a force of nature, hectored us, told us to switch everything off and then disappeared into the dark night from whence etc.
He looked a bit like an unshaven Boycie off Only Fools and Horses. In itself that might have been humorous, but he only looked like Boycie from the neck up, and the whole of that area was bright red with apoplexy. So not really very funny, and I was edging towards the cupboard in which we keep our hammers and spanners, in case he burst, metaphorically.
I suppose we should consider it a small triumph, that we were stopped in mid-flow, just like, you know, The Beatles. It means that the middle classes fear us. Well, they want us to keep it down a bit, at any rate. Grrr.