On noise, and moving on

Noise is, of course, an emotive subject.

As a young ‘un, my bedroom was in the attic (converted into a room, I hasten to add). There was no sound insulation at all, so every morning I was woken up by the sound of traffic on the Ring Road, which ran past our house. As traffic levels rose over the years, so did the noise level, but that didn’t stop me sleeping.

Mind you, I slept through the fire at the chemical factory on the other side of the Ring Road too, so that probably isn’t saying much. I only realised the following morning, when I noticed that it no longer had a roof…

In Kirkstall, I lived between a busy road and the railway line. Four trains every hour, plus the odd InterCity 125 (as was). Still no problem; these sorts of noises are expected. They rise during the day and fall during the night.

What I absolutely cannot abide is the unexpected noise, mainly loud, always music and almost always drum ‘n’ bass. The dull ‘thud-thud-thud’ coming through the walls at odd hours of the day (but more usually night). Or, as is happening at the moment, coming from the young people living at number 7.

That Saturday’s noise only stopped because one of them managed to get arrested by the Police tells you all you need to know; I’m on to a loser here if I stay, because I value my peace and quiet, and I especially value my sleep. Which I’m not getting.

I think I’m still going to get it ready to go onto the market, possibly next month. I know, it’s a silly time to sell, but it’s a good house, and if I even get close to the outstanding secured debts figure I can try and wing it on the balance (believe me, I will think of something) if it gets me out of here.

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