It was around midnight last Friday night that I first became aware something was going on in the street outside my house. I could hear shouting and screaming, but it was the noise of over-exuberant teenagers rather than an escalating argument. I pressed my face up against the patterned glass panel by my front door and, sure enough, I could make out about a dozen teens horsing around on the other side of the road. Most of them were clutching bottles of beer.
Like most middle-aged men in this situation, I was torn between a certain amount of sympathy and wanting to call the police. I’m not such an old fart that I’ve forgotten what it was like to be a teenager with nowhere to go on a Friday night. On the other hand, they were bound to leave behind pools of vomit and broken glass, not the sort of thing you want to be confronted with when you set off to the local park in the morning with four children on micro scooters.
There was also the possibility that this particular spot might become their regular hangout. One night was tolerable. But every Friday night in perpetuity? That was an appalling prospect.
I decided to hold fire for the time being, relying on the cold weather to disperse them. I already have a reputation on my street for being a bit of a Nazi when it comes to late-night parties.
Last year, one of my neighbours left her teenage children home alone for the weekend and, in their wisdom, they decided to advertise this fact on Facebook. I remember venturing out in my dressing gown at around 4 a.m. to tell them to turn the music down, only to be confronted with a scene out of Dawn of the Dead.
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