Opposite our flat is the kind of bar that gives cats depression. Cats are proud animals, and they are proud of their yowling, just as they are proud of everything else. There is no sound more appalling, or at least there should be no sound more appalling, than that yowl.
Their problem is the bar commits karaoke. Worse, it doesn’t just commit karaoke, it has many perfectly acceptable if very obviously amateur karaokans, something clearly intended to relax those poor cats and give their pride a sense of security—and then it has its landlord. He isn’t just out of tune, he’s out of sanity. If he were female, he’d be bribed by dubious glaziers to sing near expensive windows. No wonder cats slink away never to return: how could they compete?
It’s not just cats. One neighbour’s dog has the type of bark that makes me wish animals could be given elocution lessons. Its sound lies somewhere between stepping on a hamster and dropping a carafe of whisky.
I can understand why another neighbour may wish to go on a funfair ride. I can understand why that neighbour may wish to be given a fireman’s lift—well, my mother made it very clear to me, once, that that was something rather to her taste, and I don’t want to make presumptions about my neighbour’s tastes. The trouble is this neighbour makes me look scarecrow slim. I might sometimes have difficulty fitting in a shower, he might sometimes have difficulty fitting in a barn.
The poor guy fell ill, more than once. The medics wanted him in hospital, more than once. The fire fighters brought him out of a window on the third floor, down by turntable to an ambulance, more than once. He’s not been back recently. I suspect the insurance had a word.
The town’s fine. In England, it’d be a medium. In China, it’d be a village. It’s got the necessaries, and some luxuries given the country. It has the longest shopping street in the country, just as I have the largest beer gut in our house.