In absentia
Rather excitingly, and totally unexpectedly, the neighbours downstairs, who from time to time blasted me with bursts of bhangra beat alternating with Chris De Burgh, have vanished. They've disappeared. Fled the building. Ran off.
I know this because the owner of the flat told me so. He knocked on my door earlier, eager to see whether one of my outside walls was suffering from the same kind of damp that was apparently running amok one floor below.
Why, in this weather, any sort of damp is able to flourish at all is somewhat beyond me. But it was while pursuing this line of enquiry that he casually revealed his tenants had gone, more or less overnight, and he was reluctantly beginning the process of tidying the place up ahead of putting it back on the market.
He's not the same person who owns my flat, the one who is mysteriously absent from his office everytime I try to ring him. No, this was somebody else. And he looked mightily pissed off.
I have to admit I did suspect something was going on when, coming back from work yesterday, I noticed none of the windows were open in the flat. Usually they're all wide open, especially during these last few weeks of scorching heat.
That reminded me of how, on Sunday night, or rather early Monday morning, I was woken up at something like 5am by the sound of raised voices drifting up from downstairs. Of all the times to have a slanging match, 5am does not suggest itself as the most obvious. Clearly something was up.
Anyhow, they've gone and I can be slightly reassured by the knowledge I won't have to put up with any sudden interruptions of 'I've Been Missing You' or 'A Spaceman Came Travelling' for the time being.
Although saying that I was stunned and not a little peturbed to hear the sound of 'I Want To Dance With Somebody (Somebody Who Loves Me)' by Whitney Houston come barrelling out of somebody else's open window at around 12.30am last night. Does nobody ever sleep in this accursed city?
I know this because the owner of the flat told me so. He knocked on my door earlier, eager to see whether one of my outside walls was suffering from the same kind of damp that was apparently running amok one floor below.
Why, in this weather, any sort of damp is able to flourish at all is somewhat beyond me. But it was while pursuing this line of enquiry that he casually revealed his tenants had gone, more or less overnight, and he was reluctantly beginning the process of tidying the place up ahead of putting it back on the market.
He's not the same person who owns my flat, the one who is mysteriously absent from his office everytime I try to ring him. No, this was somebody else. And he looked mightily pissed off.
I have to admit I did suspect something was going on when, coming back from work yesterday, I noticed none of the windows were open in the flat. Usually they're all wide open, especially during these last few weeks of scorching heat.
That reminded me of how, on Sunday night, or rather early Monday morning, I was woken up at something like 5am by the sound of raised voices drifting up from downstairs. Of all the times to have a slanging match, 5am does not suggest itself as the most obvious. Clearly something was up.
Anyhow, they've gone and I can be slightly reassured by the knowledge I won't have to put up with any sudden interruptions of 'I've Been Missing You' or 'A Spaceman Came Travelling' for the time being.
Although saying that I was stunned and not a little peturbed to hear the sound of 'I Want To Dance With Somebody (Somebody Who Loves Me)' by Whitney Houston come barrelling out of somebody else's open window at around 12.30am last night. Does nobody ever sleep in this accursed city?
posted by Alistair Myles at 9:53 pm
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