Cliffe, 5am. I am dragged from sleep by the sound of loud music, then shouting. For a while, the words enter my dreams.
‘Fucking turn the music down.’
And: ‘Turn the fucking music down.’
And: ‘Can’t you just turn it down, you fucking…’
The guy who is playing the music shouts back, although his reply is less coherent, less focused. There is a chance, I realise, that his thought processes have been blunted by a night on the tiles.
Fully awake, I look out of my window. The music-player, whose window is open, occupies the flat above Eden, the holistic massage place. He is playing a version - a long version, it sounds like - of Jonathan Richman’s Roadrunner.
More shouting from both sides. It strikes me that, while the complainant has a clear point to make, the guy playing the music has nothing much to say. After all, what can he say? He must be in a sorry state. I once read an essay which made the point that, for some people, rock music can only be fully experienced if it’s loud enough to disturb people other than the listener.
I lie back down on my bed. Things are coming to a head. It occurs to me to go to the window again and catch the action.
In the morning, walking towards Bill’s, I look up, and, sure enough, the window above Eden is broken.
I must have fallen asleep at the crucial moment. Damn.

PS: Who are you, music guy? What’s your game?

People with glass houses shouldn’t play Jonathan Richman
into the small hours