Every day there's the incessant noise from the upstairs flat; the horrid bedlam. They must wash there clothes one it a time; the washing machine is always going, rocking on the floor; and then the most erratic thumping, the hateful incessant thumping, before reaching the end of its cycle. All day there's them stomping about, draws slamming and chairs scraping.
Every day some woman come round; yawping, forever yawping to some snotty kid she has in tow, telling it to do this, to do that, to stop crying, it's forever crying, but then wouldn't you with a mother like that. Then she's yawping to her dad, telling him off about something, and having a go at the kid again. Then they get out the Hoover, it must be an ancient old thing for all the grinding and wheezing it creates.
All morning the TVs on; blaring away, the inane chatter of breakfast TV, off around lunch time, only to emerge again for tea and the football. Nothing must interrupt the football, with all its shouting, cheering, and the inevitable disappointment.
And they call this family life! Hateful. The noise is so hateful.