I swear to God I must have done something really, really bad in a past life to justify the sheer, mindless torment I’m forced to endure in this one. No, really.
For the past three hours – that’s THREE HOURS, people – a child has been marching up and down our street, playing one shrill, headache inducing note on a…a tin whistle… (What the hell is a tin whistle? Am I making that up? It sounds like something old people would talk about…) EVERY THIRTY SECONDS. For three hours. Every thirty seconds for three hours we’ve been forced to listen to the aural equivalent of Chinese water torture. I want to die now.
I hate whistling. Hate it. I mean, this isn’t a tune that little Johnny is playing. Oh no. It’s just one, high pitched noise: the kind of sounds that makes your hair stand on end. A "nails down a blackboard" kind of noise. For three hours. Every thirty seconds. WHY? Why is he not bored with this already? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS? I mean, even Terry, who didn’t notice the noise until I started ranting about it uncontrollably, has just said that if it doesn’t stop soon he will go out there and stick the tin whistle up the kid’s … well, anyway.
It is a well known fact that I don’t tolerate noise well. Tonight I’m wearing this outfit again: