Do you ever fantasise about maiming noise-polluters? By that, I mean people who seem to be making a lot of noise for no good reason (and apart from being maimed, there are more or less no good reasons for making a lot of noise).

I’m not really a violent, angry person, but as I lie in bed jabbing these letters out with my fingers, I am juggling scenarios around in my head where the whooping, hollering, growling pricks in a flat across the street have not only their night, but their circulatory and digestive systems ruined.

I accept that it’s a Saturday night and that people like a drink, but if I’m managing to enjoy a whiskey in bed with a book without occasionally shouting ‘EYYYYYYY!!!!’ then why can’t these cunts give it a go? Midway through the last sentence they turned the music up about ten notches for good measure, then started to shout over it to one another. Where’s the logic in that? I can’t actually see the window or slide door that the sound is emanating from, but I’ve already visualised both firebombing the imagined room in my mind and – more creatively – hurling a wasps nest into it (how have I acquired said imaginary wasps nest? From an imaginary source, thank you) I’ve also envisaged identifying the person who lives there, following him into his work and whooping and yelling into his face while he tries to get on with things at his desk. In real life, Karen from accounts or someone would contact security sharpish and have me forcibly removed within five minutes; but in my imagined version, I am there a full three hours before he stops trying to ignore me and finally breaks – sobbing uncontrollably whilst trying to hit me.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Almost daily I will imagine a motorcyclist or mopedist (not a word) falling off their vehicle fast and hard, either through their own stupidity, or because of the length of thin wire I’ve tied between two lamp posts across the road they’re on (don’t ask how I’ve got the road and timing right, it’s made-up for fuck sake) I hate the sound of bike engines and as harsh as it sounds, in the case of an accident occurring directly after a bike has revved past me, I think that I’d struggle to feel concerned, and I’d definitely be at least a little bit delighted.

As I’ve touched on prior to this, I think that working in a library has lowered my tolerance for unwanted noise, but I think moving to back to Jersey has contributed too. In spite of living quite near the town centre, with bars and a couple of clubs only two minutes from our building’s entrance, we don’t contend with much noise at all. This is great, but it does mean that when you do hear something, you’re primed to notice it all the more. There’s a guy across the road who stands on his balcony once in a while and hacks up some phlegm after having a good cough and while having a bad but quite obviously compulsory cigarette. The noise of his respiratory malfunctions lasts little over a few seconds, but I lose all concentration in whatever it is I’m doing for at least a few minutes after I’ve heard the noise, because I’m busy imagining a world where I’d not only have the brass set to throw a metal dart at his smoking hand, but the incredible aim to pull it off first attempt. Back in Brighton, that cough would have happened against a continuous backdrop of traffic, seagulls squealing and drunk students laughing at themselves. It would pass by mostly unnoticed, which is good because there isn’t a mental, metal dart big enough to pierce all of that in one go – not in my imagination anyway.

Anyway, I’m writing the rest of this on the other side of what was a perfectly acceptable sleep. Closing all portals to the outside world in the flat coupled with drawing our blackout curtains as fully as possible muffled the ‘fun’ enough for me to relax and finally sleep. Also there’s a chance they all moved on out to a club or something and that what was irritating me was just the pre-drinks. I’m becoming acutely aware of how lame this vaguely-promising rant is now sounding.

I should say that the rest of Saturday was very pleasurable, not least of all because it became an unexpected ‘Marc Day’ where I did basically fuck-all apart from read and play GTA online. The plan was originally to go to a outdoor surf festival for a birthday, one hour’s bus ride away; but the incessant rain, wind and a bleak forecast put paid to our intentions of joining. It was nice to have a day where I didn’t feel guilty for staying in and doing nothing with my day. Those days are in short supply through the summer, where persistent appearances of the bloody sun dictate that we should be outdoors, wearing expensive cream to protect ourselves from it. It’s probably one of the reasons I spend September cursing it’s refusal to retire behind a thick, grey blanket of cloud. For me, the sun in September (and October for that matter) is like a once-entertaining house party guest who is now sat in your otherwise empty lounge at 3am in the morning, drinking your whiskey and demanding that you play things on YouTube. It’s time for bed now, please fuck off.