Wrapped warm and snug in his duvet, the young man was awoke by the insane warbling of his next-door neighbour. Yet again.

Cursing under the sheets, he wished he'd not ran out of ear plugs.

Briefly he thought back, remembering the first morning he awoke in his new house. He'd chuckled back then at her morning antics, but gradually over the eighteen months, they had become the most nauseating sounds he had ever heard through his paper-thin walls.

                They became as regular as clockwork.

                Routine.

She may as well be sleeping in the same bed as me, he thought. His eye's widened at the disturbing image of being in bed with a sixty year old woman.

He cursed yet again at the fact he'd been woken up. On the occasions he'd been allowed to sleep, he'd often think (when he finally rolled out of bed in the afternoon) that she might be dead.

Perhaps she'd sneezed herself to death.

It was possible; she had a sneeze that was Oscar nominated. No, this was a sneeze that would have won the award if any such category. The sneeze was as loud and fake as the Oscars; one of those irritating sneezes that some people feel they have to sound off with. At seven am in the morning, almost to the dot, it was ten times more irritating and down right scary. Last time he'd jumped at anyone sneezing was when he used to work.

His old boss; the main reason he'd left.

Well that and not needing a job in the first place.

The ways in which he was awoken did have some variety. He'd give her that.

Yeah, she was real creative. There was the warbling, yodling, operatic singing and clapping (which must have been of huge benefit to her little dog, which yapped in appreciation). Let's not forget the Oscar winning sneeze at ten decibels, coughing, gagging and spluttering. The slamming of doors, clattering of plates and dishes. The wind chime.

Oh yes, the wind chime. An object that he once used to enjoy the peaceful, stress relieving sound of on any summer day.

'Day' and 'summer' being the appropriate words, not 'windy night' and 'all the way through'. Yes, this little gift from heaven had been turned into Lucifer's very own version of Chinese water torture.

He would often not get to sleep at all, kept awake all through the night by it's incessant clanging. He often thought of sneaking into her garden in the dark, stealing it and burying it somewhere. Even worse, he'd imagine beating her to death, or strangling her with it in her sleep.

Death by wind chime.

Sweet.

At times he wouldn't be woken suddenly by the noises. Instead they would become part of his morning dreams, during that period when they are most vivid from drifting back into the land of nod. He would often wake in shock as the noises took on the sound effects of a horrific nightmare; ghouls and ghosts, their mouths agape while singing the song of death.

Harpies, Siren's and Banshees would lore him to their forbidden pools. As he ventured closer, he realised that the sounds were the yodling and warblings of his mad neighbour. His final image was their beautiful faces turning into hers, as he awoke to his heart pounding. Baboom, baboom, baboom.

If anything would give him a heart attack in his twenties, this would.

He was lucky he didn't have to get up in the morning or work nights. At least he wouldn't need an alarm clock if he did.

Songs on her soundtrack included Abba's 'Knowing me, Knowing You', Status Quo's 'Whatever you Want' and 'We're Off to Go to Bed'. The latter he assumed she'd penned herself, accompanied by the classic instrumental - the clap.

 God, he wished at times she had the clap. He was certain she wasn't going to get any applause.

Gradually the man had wondered to himself if this was why the previous neighbours had moved. If he could hear her that clearly, could she hear him? He shuddered at the thought of some of the things she might hear. Then chuckled to himself. 'I will become celibate'¦yeah right.'

He cursed yet again as the warbling continued.

The young girl opened her eyes, her first image was her own breath hitting the cold air.

The alarm clock on a Friday morning was the dustbin van reversing.

Beep, beep, beep.

She couldn't feel her feet, which she had stretched out from under the dirty, stinking blanket during the night. She put her hand to the side of her face and rubbed it gently, as she pulled her self up from the urine stained concrete outside the old bank. Her neck was in pain from the way she had slept. As she sat up straight, she could feel her back pull.

A man in a suit walked past ignoring her. It was too early for her to hold her hand out. It was too much effort to even open her mouth.

She didn't complain.

Instead she stood up, pulled the rotten blanket around herself and made her way to the park, planning yet another day.

I'll feed the pigeons, she thought.

She smiled as she hummed a tune.

Copyright © James Johnson 2006