My Lord and Lady Stompington are long gone, but the creaky floors above us remain. Our newer neighbors, whom we have never actually met have their own quirks (including loud, ahem, conjugal activity. And even more inexplicably, always vacuuming directly after said activity. We still haven’t figured that one out) but by and large we prefer them to the clay-footed, bowling ball dropping, riverdancing jerks who went before. But yesterday they almost lost their Small Dog Family stamp of approval.
While J. worked on finals, projects, etc. yesterday, I was busy being a phenomenal wife. I cleaned the whole flat and did two loads of laundry… and nearly went completely round the twist before noon.
Because the smoke alarm in the flat above us apparently needed its battery changed, it beeped precisely every thirty seconds. All day long. For the first hour or so I tried vainly to locate it, pressing my ears to the walls and moving incrementally about the apartment with me head cocked to the ceiling. The second hour I paced in circles fuming and pondered angrily as to why the neighbors didn’t shut the blasted thing off. The third hour I lay on the couch, waiting to switch out laundry loads, and glared upwards. It didn’t shut off until nearly 9pm at night. You may imagine my wrecked mental state at the time.