Over The Fence. Kumbaya!

So I am living in a very nice little apartment in a very nice part of Sydney. I am lucky enough to have a balcony, upon which a tree that I have not yet* killed is living in a pot, and I have a courtyard off my bedroom, in which numerous plant-creatures flourish**.

It is a quiet block of four. Both the upstairs neighbours are single people in their... I don't know. A bit older than me? My downstairs neighbours are a Rabbi and his wife. They are charming people. Everyone in the block is quiet (except for my kids, but there are only so many hours of the day one can put duct tape across their mouths).

It is a quiet suburban street so there is no traffic noise. Sometimes the only sound I can hear is my own breathing, the washing machine whirring, the dishwashing dishing, the cat purring, the printer printing, my fingers typing... Okay, so there are lots of sounds but none of them are offensive.

But then there are the Back Neighbours. The Back Neighbours live in a house behind my apartment. They seem to be lovely people. They don't pillage, or rape, or burn effigies, or throw water balloons at my property. But they drum. They drum ALL THE TIME.

Now, they don't drum like rock stars. I mean, that would be bad, but it would be Call-The-Police bad and it would be over and done with in an hour. Nor do they drum on those electronic drum kits that can be plugged into headphones and NOT HEARD. Because that would be awesome. (And also? Best. Invention. Ever.)

No. They drum like hippies. Because they are hippies. Yes. I am living a soap opera. A soap opera called My Neighbours Are Hippies!

He Looks Like My Neighbour!

My neighbours live in a commune of sorts. They light bonfires at night and sit around it holding hands. Yes, people really do that! They string laundry from trees, and wear clothes made from hemp and hessian sacks (from what I can see over the fence). They play bongo drums in harmony until the wee small hours, several of them, gathered around the fire. They even have two large tents pitched in the overgrown back yard, from which people emerge, sleepily dishevelled, when I am getting the kids ready for school.

I am hoping they use the toilets inside the house. I don't know.

My neighbours are hippies, and they play the bongos. And I could call the police, but they would just charm them with their herbally shmerbally ways, and my neighbours and the police would end up holding hands and singing Kumbaya together whilst roasting marshmallows. So no point really.

But if anyone has a very loud acoustic guitar, or perhaps a karaoke machine, or even a dude who does a good impersonation of Meatloaf who could hang out on my balcony for a few hours every night and give my neighbours a run for their money, I'd appreciate it if you gave me a call.

*I will. Trust me. Time.
**I do not know the difference between the various plant-creatures. Some may actually be weeds. But the overall impression is green.

The Wall

Help me. I am being assaulted.

Yes, right now. As I write. I am being assaulted by a wall of noise and lights and smells and did I say NOISE?

I am at a bowling alley with two of my kids and two of their friends and about a thousand BILLION other people. The music is pumping, the bowling balls are being thrown against the lanes like bombs (or, in my daughter's case, being literally dropped vertically - who knew bowling balls could bounce?). I can feel every vibration throughout my body. It is physical, this noise. It hurts.

I'm not complaining, really. Which is a total lie, because of course I'm complaining, which is understandable as I'm in HELL. But I'm in temporary hell, and it will pass in about an hour - or sooner if I run screaming out the door before the kids finish playing.

I hate noise. I always have. Even when I was a teenager I hated noise. I felt uncomfortable in dance clubs, partly because the intense volume made me claustrophobic. I didn't enjoy concerts, because they were so loud. To this day, I hate loud restaurants. I hate loud parties. I hate loud music. It doesn't make me feel buzzy. It makes me feel oppressed.

As a kid, I felt a bit freaky for preferring quiet. But now, at 43, I'm not freaky anymore. At 43, you're not expected to like loud noise. At 43, you're supposed to like peace and quiet. Finally, I am appropriate for my age.

But why is it that we prefer quiet as we get older? Do we become overstimulated too easily? Can our brains no longer cope with the onslaught of aural data? Or - because our eyesight is failing - are our ears more sensitive as a result?

I don't know. What I do know is that my peers have caught up with me, and it's nice not being a freak anymore.

And I hope my kids are enjoying the bowling, because they're not coming back until they can drive themselves.