8. Harold BuddBandits Of Stature
The guy who lives upstairs won’t stop playing music from 4pm onwards, every single day. His taste isn’t bad. He plays a lot of my favourites even. Sometimes it degenerates, but given how bad things could have been, well, I’m a tiny bit thankful. Still, I find it jarring in the extreme. In my youth I tortured neighbours with music. The minute I had my own room, in student halls, I made a point of playing everything aggravatingly loud. Music kind of has to be aggravatingly loud. The guy upstairs understands this. I’m sure, given another set of circumstances, we might have gotten on. My landlady has told me tales. Told me that he’s into writing books about aliens. Has painted weird hieroglyphics all over his walls. Has had his bedroom door removed and replaced with a cupboard. He has to climb through a cupboard to get to bed. I’ve been living here six months now. We’ve only met once. On the day I moved in. I rattled his door until he could make out my presence through the din on his stereo. He looked shocked to see me. A wiry little old guy. Frail looking. I asked him to turn his music down. He told me the music wasn’t just for him, but his friends also. I haven’t in six months spotted any of these friends, but whatever. I work from home I told him, feeling like a proper prick, but it had to be done. I can’t stand music sometimes.
