Neighbours or 503 and their increasing repertoire of disruption

503: It could be the name of a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Come to think of it, considering the amount of noise that comes from 503, it could be a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Unfortunately, it’s not. It’s the flat above me. And I’m going (not-so-quietly) insane.

I suspect, since I knocked on their door to (very sweetly) ask them to shut-the-fuck-up, that they’ve begun devising new ways to irritate me. No, scrap that, they just a bunch of inconsiderate plonkers who are making my life hell. (Mostly because they’re interfering with my very precious sleep.)

1. The trance parties:
These usually happen on a Sunday night. A SUNDAY!? (My horror has nothing to do with religion. Rather, it’s the night before Monday, when everything should be quiet and peaceful as you savour the remnants of the weekend before being hurled back into another blurry working week.) Not only does their loud doof-doof music, thump through the walls, they also clap in time, bleat, shriek and laugh. A lot. This goes on until the wee hours of the morning, unless someone else in the block bangs their door down. (I prefer to lie in bed cursing them, plotting my revenge – which includes an envelop of Oscar’s pooh in their postbox – than actually face the music. Hey, I don’t like confrontation.)

2. The time their window blew out:
I was on my balcony when it happened. Ha! I thought: karma. That was until Dick start knocking out the pieces of glass that were still clinging to the frame with absolutely no regard for who might be walking down below, or the South Easter or me on my balcony below. (Why I was surprised? I don’t know.) Then I realised that the Trance Parties would be worse with a pain of glass missing. Ugh.

3. Bowling Night
So I’m lying on my couch watching TV when all of a sudden, something heavy is dropped directly above my head. Over and over again. It sounds like a ball. A bowling ball. On tiles. Fab! Eventually I rush to get my wooden-handled mop to thud at them from below. At the sound of the bang of my utility cupboard door (on my balcony) they stop. I spend the rest of the night, mop in hand, telepathically daring them to try-that-again. They don’t.

4. Let’s play Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy - Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy!
And move the furniture around, at 10pm at night. (This happens at least once a week.) Three words: tiles, heavy, furniture.

5. Three’s-a-Charm
Monday morning 1am – rip-roaring fight ensues and wakes me up. Lots of shouting, banging, dragging of furniture (¿).
Monday night – Trance Party (see no. 1)
Wednesday morning 2am – he gets home (I can only assume) drunk and pumps up the volume. This time, “I think you’re a-mayyyyy-ziiiiinnnng” rings out into the night. And wakes me up.

It’s after three nights of being kept from sleep that I decide I can’t take anymore and decide to have a little word. (I've been drinking beer with Ashley, so my confidence and indignance are at an all-time high when I get home.) He’s not home. I wait. Suddenly, the thud of something from above. Ah! I march upstairs and knock before I lose my bottle. He’s sulky, sullen, mumbling, I repeat myself, smiling, until I get an apology. Next time, I’m not going to be so nice.

6. Heels
On tiles. It’s 11pm, I’m trying to sleep. Do I need to say any more?

This tips me over the edge. I’ve contacted the Body Corporate. She's sympathetic, but naturally won't lift a finger. It’s going to take some time, but I’ll canvass the other neighbours this weekend and bombard the letting agent with complaints.

Game on!