Shut the f*** up!

I've been working really hard down at the studio recently, and whereas it's much easier to focus there than at home (no dishwasher to empty; no flies to chase), there is one distraction that is beginning to test my sanity. Opposite the studio there is a small apartment block where I can only presume there lives a crack dealer (or some such public service operative). They have a doorbell system that is so over-amplified it sounds like a very loud warbling telephone bell. People arrive to gain entry to that building with remarkable frequency. The mornings are okay, just the odd visitor – some of whom look like regular people (whatever that means), but the afternoons! It starts hotting up at about 3:30 p.m. when they begin to arrive almost by coach party. My desk overlooks the street and I can see the door to the building as I type. Being a nosey sort, I can never resist raising my eyes from the keyboard whenever I hear that sickeningly familiar warble-like claxon that heralds the arrival of a new visitor, desperately seeking entry.

To say that most of these people are irregular types is perhaps a slight injustice. Some of them look as if they might even be able to hold down a job, but the majority appear to be typical of the shifty, shady, underbelly world of unemployment, drink and drugs. Track suits and baseball caps are de rigeur, as are dark glasses and gold chains. Balabalabalabala, goes the doorbell, followed by something muttered discreetly into the intercom. The door buzzes open and inside they go, only to reappear (more often than not) a few minutes later. Then it's a short pause on the threshold, a quick glance up and down the street, and they're gone. I could be wrong – they might just be popping in to wish someone a happy birthday.

I don't really care what they are up to, but when you're trying to work and you hear this balabalabalabala every other minute, it becomes a bit wearing. Couldn't they have a doorbell system that didn't resound into the street and that could only be heard in the apartment being called? What is the point of announcing to the entire neighbourhood that yet another smackhead customer has arrived at No. 43? But there's more – sometimes the visitor (for whatever reason) is denied access, and it's then when the real disturbance starts. Often the denied visitor will repeatedly press the bell (balabalabalabala) hoping, somehow, to convince the occupants inside to relent. Others will move into the centre of the road and start bellowing various names up at the high windows. One boy yesterday – presumably not equipped with any heightened sense of social responsibility – began pressing every single doorbell on the keypad, one after the other, over and over again, until he at last made some form of human contact. Clearly disappointed that whoever it was who responded was not the person he wanted, he resumed his unyielding attack on the keypad and kept it up for a good two minutes before moving on. Less time than it takes to boil an egg I admit, but quite long enough to boil my brains.

By this time, I felt I could have used some drugs myself, just to block out the inexorable warble-like ringing that had now taken up residence inside my head.

Balabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabala!