I wake up to rumblings. Not Teflon Man snoring, but rather the engine of the Number 6 bus to Hardwick Sainsbury’s waiting to pick up prospective early-morning shoppers from outside our house. The bed literally vibrates. And not in a good way. As if anything that happens before the alarm could ever be a good thing. Worse, it started at 6.51 on Saturday with the 505 to Spalding. 6.51am! On a Saturday! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!
What’s especially concerning is that I sleep in a back bedroom so those vibrations are literally reverberating throughout the house.
Mercifully it’s not a permanent set up. The local bus station is being re-vamped. Which in itself is no bad thing. In my early twenties the thing that depressed me most about being back in my home town was the hell of the bus station. The ugliness of the design – just bleugh. Although at least it matched the souls of the travellers, with their mosh pit mentality when it came to boarding as though they were, en masse, queue-phobic.
Nearly 20 years later the Council have come to the same thinking as me. Although, whereas I’d have simply employed someone to herd them into queueing pens with cattle prods the Council decided that a reconfiguration of the stops would suffice.
But nothing comes without a price, and our price is putting up with the relocated temporary bus stops on our doorsteps for 3 months.
Three months! That’s approximately 91 rumbly rude awakenings. And, to be honest, I take to mornings badly enough as it is. After 3 months of rattling starts it’ll probably be best if no one talks to me until at least 11.30am. And then, only if bringing me food or coffee.
Worse, the engines aren’t turned off for any stop between around 7.30am and 8.00pm. That’s approximately…not so quick bit of maths…5,304 times my house will shake and my nerves will fray before they move back to the shiny new station in June.
Lets just accept that I may not be accountable for my actions at some point. And I am willing to use this blog as evidence for my defence in court if need be.
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I doze off at night to further rumblings. Not the buses this time, but angry words through the walls and ceiling as Eve and her boyfriend bicker their way through another disagreement.
Yelling, swearing, doors slamming, objects crashing. More reverberations, this time with added recriminations. Ah, just what’s needed when trying to settle the kids down to sleep.
You would hope the situation would be temporary – that they’d sort their differences out and learn to argue in a more mature, less volatile way…or at least argue in the same passive-aggressive way that the rest of us use to battle things out. Surely it’s got to be better to have bite-marks on your tongue than cracks in the walls? (Cracks in a relationship, however, come whichever way you slice it, it seems.)
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Meanwhile I’m tired yet tense and wishing that the house would stop shaking. I know it won’t last forever…but I fear you might find me sitting on a pile of rubble where once our house stood waving a white flag before then.