After a memorably long and trying day with the noise from upstairs, I got up this morning feeling thoroughly exhausted. I was right about there being another kid up there. I heard his name being bellowed out at just before ten last night. He's older than the other too, and sounds like he smokes pot. He ought to be in borstal, if he hasn't been there already. I'm sure his life is set on a downward spiral of antisocial behaviour and crime.
Yesterday I came to realise that I don't just dislike my neighbours. I fucking well hate them. I've never in my life said that about anyone and meant it, but this time I do. When I was a young man, I used to say that I hated my dad. I didn't really hate him. I used the word 'hate' to deal with how I was feeling. The feeling I described as 'hate' then, was a mixture of grief, anger, fear and incomprehension. That's not the same as what I feel now. I know that the neighbours won't be there for much longer. I can't wait for the horrible bastards to go.
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