I ranted and raved at the thought of being forced to leave my studio flat because of Dementia Lady. And then they put the worlds loudest woman next door. Her 2am ciggies and phonecalls cost me the time and pleasure of full day research in Oxford. The lack of sleep for 16 months and shocked awakenings has left me fat and frail. Next door was a guest flat but she found it better than what she had and bullied the housing staff to keep it.
Last week on a 1a.m before a hospital appointment and seminar I was jolted awake by inane voices in the garden below my balcony. Her flat was the other side of the estate but she decided with her daughter to smoke and rant under mine.
I went out braless and barefoot to rest my head in my hands.
“Can I not get one fucking nights sleep? Just one night? Do you not understand how your ruining my appointments and all the other stuff you deprive me of?”
“Stuff and what?”
“That you deprive me of!”
“I’ve not been here,” she grunts indifferent.
“But you’re here now it’s one in the morning, you are ruining another morning…just another morning.
And she stayed to finish her smoke and bitch about me while I shivered to the sky wishing I was a crow or some free thing of nature.
I missed uni again.
On Saturday she moved in and dementia lady returned from hospital despite forever saying she can’t be moved from her top floor flat.
So I have moved my futon to a ground floor garden view with an aubergine carpet, dead mans commode and knick-knacks left here.
The balcony has been windowed in to create a little lightless conservatory. At night I light candles that reflect in masses. The windows open on to the Japanese maple and the foxes route. It is so quiet. Of course I hear the men pee and doors shut but there are no disturbing shouts or wails.
I sit by candles and write for my tutor what I want to say about Vivien Eliot and the poetry I wish you could all be allowed to read.