Bastards!
It’s Saturday morning, therefore too early for words; all the outside doors are open so that we can enjoy a refreshing 2° C breeze; and a bunch of strangers, after transporting muddy equipment through our flat, are erecting scaffolding in the back yard. Not for my benefit, oh no, it’s the bastard neighbours upstairs. They like us to share in whatever they’re doing. If they’re enjoying a morning spot of DIY, we know. If they’re arguing over the uncooked potatoes, we know. If England is winning the rugby, we know. If one of them is taking a leak, we can hear that too. The only thing they don’t seem to do, ever – or, trust me, we would know- is shag. And now I got the scaffolding wake up call – I’m a furry little ball of nerves, and the cat isn’t doing much better. He’s crawled behind the washing machine, filling his imaginary trousers. He was brought up by a couple of misanthropists and has exceeded all our expectations. I’m just annoyed and sleepy. And hungry. The kitchen is cold.

I wonder what I'll be like when I'm old.