Noisy Neighbors

I still suffer pangs of guilt for the noise I helped inflict on a poor woman in East London in 1996. It was my first flat (on the second floor of a converted terraced house on Blurton Road, East Clapton, to be precise) and the woman, whose name I never knew, was unfortunate enough to live below.

My flatmate was arguably the least responsible person I have ever known. He couldn’t understand why placing armchair-sized speakers on the floor and playing pumping techno music late into the night, albeit at a low volume, could possibly disturb our neighbor. And the comings and goings of another friend, who could often be found stumbling over our myriad ashtrays and passing out on the couch, probably didn’t help either.

As cash-strapped London students we hardly ever went out, preffering instead to while away the nighttime hours playing Playstation, listening to music and watching movies. When we did go out we clumped up and down the stairs at all hours, day and night. We must have driven her mad.

All of this came back to me yesterday as I read the carefully-written complaints from this neighbor in Astoria, Queens.