It is gone two o’clock in the morning and our delightful neighbours began a l’il partaaay at gone midnight and now that the guests are gone, he’s ‘practising’ the drums. I say ‘practising’ because, frankly, son, you’re really not improving, despite the amount of time you spend ‘playing’.
Trying hard to not imagine ways of sticking drumsticks where the sun don’t shine. Grace. Peace. Patience. Trouble is if I’m tired in the morning it’s not just me… I end up short with the kids and not able to do what I need to do. I need my sleep. I don’t want ‘I hate this place’ to become my mantra over the next few weeks, tempting as that is. It’s not as if I’m busy or anything, because of course, it’s the magic fairy who does all the organising for the move… Oh no, wait. It’s me. I spent four hours on the phone yesterday, with one thing and another. It all takes so long
How in the name of blessed sanity do you explain to someone who doesn’t already know that playing the drums at 2.25am is not acceptable?!
Ten past three and they’re still going. It’s not as if it’s the weekend even. Morons-R-Us 😐
Ten to four in the morning and I think they’ve all finally buggered off. And I’m being polite. My brain has been whispering all sorts of very rude words that ought to make a lady blush. ‘Moron’ is really quite polite…