Living in the middle of a thriving tourist town has some drawbacks. Noise is one of them. Often wonderful music played by travelling musicians, but all too often drunken people at four in the morning who, by this time having lost the ability to speak, have been gifted by Bacchus with the ability to shout very very loudly as they stumble home. Often passing backwards and forwards, as they are completely lost, but absolutely convinced they are going in the right direction. The true champions of this sport for the alcoholically enhanced are the Aussies closely followed by the Irish. Sometimes literally. Intent on trying to outdo each other with the most witless conversations imaginable.
Of course occasionally our beloved American cousins get in on the act too. One night at about three o’clock two American girls decided to have a “I’m fucking sick of travelling with you” chat in the street outside number 12. They went on and on sinking lower and lower into a tarpit of nastiness. As an aside dear reader, it is interesting to me that drunk guys just punch each other be done with it. On the other hand girls take things a step further. These two were going through something truly cathartic. The evisceration – by tongues as sharp as knives – of their former love for each other was laying bare every little thing they had been bottling up for two months spent on the road. After a while I had had enough of this unpleasantness, got out of bed and walked to the terrace overlooking the street.
My initial intention was to suggest they go away, but then I realised that at my feet was a bucket of water. Looking at the bucket and then looking at them, it dawned on me I didn’t need to say anything at all.
The water made a pleasing sound as it landed on their heads and to my satisfaction conversation stopped in mid-sentence, if not mid-word. I was immensely chuffed. Not a bad shot if I say so myself, especially as it was from three floors up. I tottered off to bed and fell asleep in blissful silence.