Why do people associate Bloomsbury with writers? Because no one can do any writing here now. The noise is intolerable. Several floors down, workmen are tearing out a flat - all the bathroom units, the kitchen, the walls and no doubt the floor down to the core of the earth. They are POUNDING with huge giant POUNDING machines. They are drilling. They are banging. There's not just one of them but several, all working in unison. It sounds as if they are pounding inside my head. No amount of loud music is going to block them out - I can even feel the floor vibrate under my feet. And anyway, I can't listen to music and write. The best I can do is rain as white noise, a whole variety of which I've listened to on YouTube.
On top of the pounding fuckers downstairs, the council "gardeners" have also turned up with their leaf blowers - what fucking leaves are they blowing?! It's August! It's been the hottest, stickiest, shittest summer in London for years. Not only are the leaf blowers going but the lawnmowers, attacking the three foot wide piece of debris-strewn weed-infested dirt they call grass.
How am I supposed to work when it sounds like the world is falling down around me? Everything else in my life at the moment sucks big time (she said, being frightfully slangy) and my writing is about the only thing I can turn to for relief. But I can't write with all that POUNDING going on.
I bet Virginia Woolf didn't have these problems when she lived in Bloomsbury.
On top of the pounding fuckers downstairs, the council "gardeners" have also turned up with their leaf blowers - what fucking leaves are they blowing?! It's August! It's been the hottest, stickiest, shittest summer in London for years. Not only are the leaf blowers going but the lawnmowers, attacking the three foot wide piece of debris-strewn weed-infested dirt they call grass.
How am I supposed to work when it sounds like the world is falling down around me? Everything else in my life at the moment sucks big time (she said, being frightfully slangy) and my writing is about the only thing I can turn to for relief. But I can't write with all that POUNDING going on.
I bet Virginia Woolf didn't have these problems when she lived in Bloomsbury.
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