Blessed neighbours

Last night, after a long weekend at Carnaval, I crashed into bed at about 8:45pm. Tossed and turned a bit from overtiredness but eventually fell asleep. I was woken up about three hours later by my neighbour upstairs throwing something (god know what, but it certainly broke) on the floor (our ceiling) in a fit of rage.

This was complimented by screaming, shouting, stomping and doors slamming. Just your general domestic warfare on a Sunday evening - at midnight. They would settle down, then the woman would pick it up again. I knew that tone. It was the tone of a woman who was going to fight, no matter what or how the man tries to appease her. He would talk. She would shout.

Crash. Stomp. Bang.

After about forty minutes, I decided to personally point out to them that it was now after midnight. I went upstairs and rang the doorbell.

"JA?" came the highly irritable shout from inside. I waited. I sure as fuck wasn't going to shriek my request from the hallway through a closed door. I waited some more.

Eventually the husband came to the door. "JA?" He demanded a second time as if surprised that anybody else would be up at this hour.

"Rustig, alstublieft..." I started to ask. You know, just generally pointing out that we can hear every word of their exchange.

"But we are fighting. So."

That was his exact response. We are fighting, so... don't make your complaints my problem. We are fighting, so... stop interrupting us. We are fighting, so... what are you going to do about it. We are fighting... so fuck off.

I asked him to keep the fighting to a lower decibel level, and possibly the plate-breaking to a minimal. You know, just a consideration. To be fair, they were marginally quieter after that. And I think he silently read my thoughts about drugging her with elephant tranquilisers because eventually they did shut up.

Yes, as my colleagues pointed out this morning, I could've just called the police. But - colour me South African - I think people call on the police far too easily. Police should be called when there is a crime. Not when your neighbours are irritating you. Crazy Dame Olga called the police on us because our door was banging. I shit you not. And as much as there was drama, I don't think there was physical abuse. No one was hitting anyone. There were words and there was stomping. I've lived in a chav estate in London... I know what is sounds like when someone hits someone else in the room above mine. I know what violent domestic fighting sounds like. But that's a whole 'nother story.

Anyway, so I'm grumpy because the wench above our flat was shouting like a banshee until about 2am. So the post about my weekend at Carnaval will have to wait until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after - because Mills and I are hosting guests for dinner tomorrow. I hope Mills is cooking. For their sake.