Close Quarters

So, one of the reasons that London smells, you will agree, is that quarters are close. Flats are small, offices cramped and tubes stuffed. It's not so much a problem as a fact of life, like living in one of those fold-down apartments in Tokyo.

Having decided against moving, myself and The Bearded One resolved to love our flat more, which is easy enough, considering that at £210 per week with no council tax to pay, it's a steal for a teeny one-bed on two floors with the aforementioned weenie patio in its fantabulous location convenient to work and friends. So, friends should come round more, and did last night, which was nice. Seems we could manage twice as many as we had in the end, so watch this space, party central.

Downside? At the moment, however, I'm huddled on the less pleasant of the two floors, because my Scary Neighbour is upstairs with The Bearded One. The Bearded One, like most boys, has a long fuse for people, unlike myself. Scary Neighbour is a large, strong, loud man in his thirties who, we can tell from being on the patio, likes to scream abuse at his wife. OK, so sometimes she screams back, but very rarely. Scary Neighbour, an equal oppurtunities screamer, also shouts filth when he's alone. He is, I believe, unaware that we know either of these facts. As sorry as I feel for the wife, what confirms his craziness in my mind is that he plays out entire fictional arguments at the top of his voice out the kitchen window while he does the dishes alone in his apartment.

I object to being forced to know these sorts of things about people.