The sounds of my flat

When I’m alone in my flat, I might not speak for six hours.  I never got into the habit of having music ‘on’, because whenever I hear music I invariably end up devoting too much of my attention to it.  So I’ve gotten to know the more regular noises around the end of Maryhill.


– There is a curious whistling at around eight every night.

– Very early in the morning, most days, a police siren will scream past.

– Sometimes, there is an ice cream van.  I strongly suspect it sells drugs, but not strongly enough, or I’d be out there sampling the goods.

– The flat across the street will often play party music loudly.  It reminds me of Liar Clive’s long walk home in the BBC3 comedy Monkey Dust.  Oh man, I just remembered the Paedofinder General.

– The church bells at six on a Sunday.

– Some fucker across the alley puts their dog out unattended every night, in sub-arctic temperatures, then closes the door and ignores its pleading to get back in.  I might go steal that dog.


Sigh.  Silence is golden.



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