I’m sure next door never used to be so loud. Not Hugo and Chavette, who have largely settled down since the early days; but Brian and Sharon. I’d forgotten that from the very early days they’ve been a source of noise early in the morning, but recently it seems to have just got far, far worse.
The social difficulty of complaining is that this has been very much like boiling the proverbial frog, only considerably noisier than a pot on the stove. It’s as though only recently have they removed a source of noise cancellation from the adjoining room, or rewired their bathroom pull switch so that it connects directly to a sounding-board built against our wall. They also seem to move large breeze blocks across the adjoining wall, maybe once a morning. I think it’s an acoustic artifact of some sort of plumbing, but it’s doing my head in.
None of this is helped by Brian spending a minute or so letting his motorbike tick over any time between 6.45 and 7am, more than near enough to our windows to hear it: the first rev; the click of the footstand; the long wait while he wheels it past cars; the pause as he gets on it; the dip in revs as he engages the clutch; then a sharply ascending tone very much like a twat on a two-stroke.
K. has taken to sleeping on the futon downstairs some nights. I can’t blame her. I’d take to sleeping somewhere else, if I could sleep anywhere else beyond ten past six.