Drilling

For the last couple of weeks, one of our neighbours upstairs has been renovating their flat.

Let me tell you the joys of experiencing someone else's renovation.

During the week, you are treated to the constant mute thuds of hammering, punctuated by some staccato chiselling around 7am. It's not very loud, you can still be in a state of half-sleep, but one which is akin to the feeling of having a 1 1/2-bottle-of-bad-red-wine hangover. The reason it's not very loud is because they're actually only supposed to start at 8am, as I found out from my landlady. Naughty naughty.

They save their masterpiece for Saturday at 8am, when they unleash their serious artillery - power drills and some all-encompassing machine that extends up and down your decibel range. Sometimes they tease us with a minute or two of the awesome silence we normally enjoy. In the meantime, our muscles still tensed for the next attack, our hearts become organs of rage, and we dream of ways to apply the drills to the owners of the flats.

Oh. A 5-minute silence now...and the orchestra strikes up again.