There’s a Chav Outside My Window
I want to scream in this crazy coronavirus lockdown
We’re considerate when we sit, play or potter in our back gardens butted end to end in a patchwork between two rows of houses. Even the chap next door with his lawn trimmed to bowling standards keeps his Flymo fetish in check. It’s a market town. People are community-minded.
But there’s always one house with neighbours from hell. Their lack of self-awareness is staggering. Outside my open window, music blares into the spring sunshine as we try to stay sane in lockdown. I rush upstairs to look from the bedroom window. Who’s making this bloody din in our quiet neighbourhood? How can they be so thick-skinned?
A few doors down, it’s a stereotypical scene from a sitcom—white flesh hangs in folds from the topless bloke tending his BBQ, a fag hanging from his lip. His partner bulges from a white singlet pulled tight like a sausage skin. A younger man covered with tattoos, high-fives the BBQ king and the music blares on. I feel frazzled. Perhaps I’m overreacting. This crazy coronavirus messes with your mind.
They have a jacuzzi too. I moved in a month ago but already the summer is looking bleak. Our gardens are thin on trees, so you can imagine how noise travels. It’s hard enough to cope with the isolation in this lockdown, let alone…
