The neighbours have all left for their Christmas dinners, and suddenly, there is nothing. No footsteps in the adjacent stairwell, no television murmuring behind the living room wall, no clatter of cupboard doors closing or dishes being washed.
It’s eerie, but not in a bad way.
Earlier, I tried to read as the hipster couple next door listened to their favourite band, Coco Rosie. Their music falls in the higher end of the sound spectrum, and, thus, pierces through thin apartment walls with inescapable clarity.
Because of this, I will never like Coco Rosie. Which is a shame.
I can also hear the hipster couple next door having sex, though not very often because they are, in this regard, morning people, and I most assuredly am not. However, I have occasionally been awoken by them, usually when I am hungover and feeling not at all the écouteuse.
She does have lovely little love cries, though. He, sadly, does not. Grunt, grunt, done. I should devise a rating system for the vocal performances of my neighbours. One knock=Fair. Two knocks=Good. Three knocks=Can I come over?
Yes, this is how life will be for a while. Small.