I wrote my neighbours a letter today.

I actually did. A hand-written note too, trying desperately hard to sound reasonable, asking them if they could kindly shut the fuck up once in a while. I’m going to drop it under their door when they are not home so I don’t have to see their faces.

In my defence, I have approached them in person. It was 7.30pm on a goddamn Friday night. I’d just put the monster to bed (he’s not a monster – the nickname Ori Monster just stuck) when, amongst the usual cacophony of footsteps and incessant dropping of things onto the floor (clumsy much?) a very loud, repetitive thud started up. No, they weren’t having sex. It was louder than that. More particular than that. No, no, my friends…they were playing handball.

Handball.

In the room above my sleeping baby’s head. Goodie. So now I have become that person. I never wanted to be that person, but my anxiety and panic inspired courage I’ve not had for a long time and carried me up there, asking them to kindly shut the actual fuck up. Of course, I didn’t say it like that. I apologised profusely, acknowledging how lame I felt and asked if they could possibly, please, for the love of god…stop?

They were lovely. They said no problem. I went back to my apartment and burst into tears. That was two weeks ago. And the noise, albeit never a ball game, has been so friggin constant and annoying and loud enough to wake me on too many occasions that enough is enough. So I wrote them a note. And tomorrow I’m going to deliver it. I actually wrote the words ‘could I appeal to your consideration’. If I ever received a letter like that, I’m pretty sure I would roll my eyes pretty damn hard.