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.