Sorry to drone on, but they’re at it again. The occupants of the flat below me. (Or should that be ‘beneath me’. Where’s Simon Heffer when you need him?)
Last night, their favourite CD by the indeterminate European balladeer (I imagine long hair, though) was started up at television-drowning-out volume around 8pm – just after I passed the perpetrator in the lift. She was wearing sunglasses (after dark, and In. The. Lift.) and seemed taken aback when I said ‘hello’, unsure how to answer.
Luckily for me, the hammer-like thuds from her bassed-up stereo were replaced after an hour or so by some heartstoppingly fast house music. Repeat until midnight.
Naturally, the entryphone was left answered. It being a Bank Holiday Monday, there was no one ‘personning’ the Hackney Noise hotline. The police were adamant that, although I couldn’t hear my television above the thuds, that reading or sleeping were both out of the question, and that my anger was rising by the bpm, it wasn’t a matter with which they could trouble themselves.
“If it was coming from a parked car, or a party in a neighbours garden, I could send someone round. If it’s coming from indoors, it’s a council matter. We can’t even ring their bell,” said the copper, clearly a fellow Anita Ward fan.
So now what? Hackney Council haven’t called me back to discuss my case (they’ve got a dicky ansamachine so I don’t hold out that they will), and my management company RMG don’t seemed too concerned either. They don’t seem concerned about much, in fact. It took them months to replace security locks that actually locked – and when they got round to it, the handles were upside down.
Will no one rid me of these troublesome neighbours?
I fear a Falling Down moment coming on.