I try not to be a party pooper but the other night I came home to such a cacophony of revelling from a neighbour’s house that I concluded there had to be a gathering of international gangsters, drug barons and hookers in my street. The thumping hip hop, screaming and glass smashing was coming from a house whose back garden borders mine at the bottom; so I crept outside to see if I could catch a glimpse.
I picked my way to the end of the garden in the dark, pulled myself up over the fence and braced myself to see hoards of Nike-swathed homeboys dripping in gold chains and spliffs. But when I got my nose over, all I saw was an open kitchen door and beyond it four smartly dressed professional types in their 30s — two men, two women — dancing around a CD player and waving a bottle of Sancerre. It was a bit disappointing. Still, this will be a piece of cake, I thought.
‘Excuse me!’ I called over the fence the next time there was a gap in the music. ‘Hello! Over here! Helloooo!’ I shouted as loud as I could. ‘Over here! Hello!’ Nothing. I ended up screaming ‘hello!’ about 50 times. It was excruciatingly embarrassing and meant that I was now the main disturbance in the neighbourhood.
After several humiliating minutes one of the girls figured it out. ‘I think it’s coming from over there,’ she said. ‘Yes!’ I gasped, now virtually hoarse. ‘Over here!’ They turned in my general direction so I said, ‘Er, if you don’t mind, would it be possible for you to close your back door?’
‘Is she complaining?’ the other girl said, drunkenly swaying and spilling her drink.
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