9:16 am – Bedroom

As the wind blows outside it is passing through something, the eaves of the house possibly, producing a sound like that of a child’s whistle. Though it lacks conviction as if said whistle were being blown by a toddler with little awareness of the power of its own lungs. It isn’t quite windy enough for the rubbish bins to have been blown over outside as they sit patiently awaiting collection, and emptying by the refuse men. It’s Monday, Bin Day, and they have now arrived.

The neighbours to my right must think they are really cool because they are always playing hip-hop music loudly under my window as they prepare themselves for the day and whatever journey they are planning on undertaking. Going to work probably. Still, nice as it is that they are so musically jovial, I wish they would shut the fuck up. My head is full of cotton wool, and the pale light filtering through the gap in the curtains is just a little too bright still. The colour of the music blasting up from below is clashing with the colour scheme inside my head and outside my window. I wish they would hurry up and go away. Dark reds and verdant greens in broad strokes jumping up and down on the pale silvery-blue wash of the day’s canvas. Incisive black lines trying to define my head space, when all I want is the argent tranquility that is beckoning me to close my stinging eyes. Along with the whistling wind, this symphonic cocktail is like the dull thud of a wall pressed against my head at frequent intervals.

At least the neighbours to the left haven’t yet begun their murderous caterwauling as they attempt to extricate children from house, and plug them into the Happy-Wagon. All three youngsters are going to grow up to be nutters, just like their well-rounded psychopathic parents. No wonder people don’t seem to stay here very long. Just as well I don’t plan to either.

Of course, Number One Son has befriended the oldest of the three neighbour children to the left, thinking that he’d like to spend more time with this new cool friend of his. But then, Number One Son has a tendency to attract nut-jobs, as he did a couple of years ago when he introduced me to my most recent stalker. I found myself reminding Number One Son that sometimes his

Right kind of monkey, wrong Hopper.

definition of ‘friend’ is a misnomer, and that going on frequent past experience he needs to exercise a little more caution when flippantly awarding random strangers that accolade.

It’s raining now as if in answer to my woes. The dryness of the confines of my room reflect the dryness of my eyes and throat, though inside my head it’s raining too, a torrent of colourful musical paint Jackson Pollocking all over what was my nice blank mind.

“Turn the fucking music down you shiz-bags!”

Now, I like my abstract art, but not when it intrudes into my personal space like a deranged monkey on a bouncy-hopper.

Finally, more than an hour later, and the music has stopped. Peace reigns, or is that: rains, inside my head again. A train rattles past not 20 metres from the back of house, the sound of traffic passes wetly along the main coast road just beyond the row of houses to the left. The sound of water flushes through domestic pipes, and I can hear people jackknifing car doors in an attempt to evade the rain. Oh no…the neighbours to left have just surfaced, right on cue I suppose. Here we go again! Assume brace position…





*Images courtesy of the internet. Sources unknown.

6 thoughts on “The Whistling Wind

    1. You’re on hugging terms with one neighbour, that’s more than I can ever hope for here. Not that I’d ever want to.
      I’m glad you liked the writing. It took me a while to wade through cotton wool in my head and get the words out onto the screen.


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