Again this morning, a running; a thumping; two sudden bangs. I leap from my pit and compose A Note.
TwatBoy -
Could you pop down later so I can demonstrate "acoustics"? I know it's a pain in the arse, but let's get it over and done with. Every time you slam the front door, I wake up, and I'm REALLY TIRED now. Won't take long.*
Cheers
NWM
The note has been Removed from outside the front door, but no message left in return.
Whatever next, I wonder! Will TwatBoy turn up this evening? Will I ever sleep again? How many times will I have to slam his head in the front door before he realises that it is heavy, and therefore makes a loud noise when it is slammed? Will I disappear for months, only to re-emerge outside the Old Bailey wild eyed and unrepentant? And what is the word for the killing of a neighbour? Twaticide?
* Use of ironic apostrophes around "acoustics" and the expression "pop down" are clear evidence of my mental distress. I reckon I'd get manslaughter and that, as long as I don't cut him up and feed him to the squirrels.
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2 comments:
In order to feed him to squirrels, you'd have to cut him into tiny pieces. This can be time consuming, not to mention messy.
A couple of bottles of hydrochloric acid in the bath tub should suffice.
Please wear gloves and protective eyewear.
Oh, and you never heard this from me.
Excellent advice which, of course, I have not heard from you.
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