My neighbours are ruining my isolation zen

As a person who is older than 18 with two children of my own, I can tell you that I have been woken up against my will many thousands of times in my life.

But nothing could compare to my fifth week in quarantine when I was awoken by the dense, meaty smell of my neighbour making lasagne at 6am. Maybe it wasn’t lasagne, because it didn’t have any sort of flavour to it. This is also, incidentally, how I knew it wasn’t sausages – there was no joy to this smell, nothing “breakfasty” about it whatsoever.

My neighbour who, by the way, shares an adjoining wall with me and who, it must be added, as a single white man has enjoyed “experimenting” with curries and other strongly scented dishes so much during lockdown. He simply can’t help himself, he has to rise and cook. At 6am. Every day.

So that’s awful, but it’s made worse by my other neighbour who is equally busy with his own newfound quarantine hobby: cutting up wood with a chainsaw.

Oh, I’m sure he probably brags in his closed Facebook group (probably called “Saw Dudes”) that he’s building a cabinet.

But when I look over at his lawn, all I see are a bunch of wooden planks strewn over the grass, and a sinewy gent in a high-vis vest trying in vain to control a really loud and dangerous tool.

These two things are happening with alarming regularity and almost always before 9am. Honestly, why? What are they trying to prove? We’re living through a pandemic not a collective midlife crisis.

What happened to being still? Aren’t we all meant to be taking it easy and gently stretching at this time of the morning?

OK, I admit that I’m probably being over-sensitive. See, I’ve worked from home since I had my first kid, seven years ago now.

There have been a couple of stints at the office, but my lounge is both my sanctuary and my place of work and, after my husband leaves and I drop the kids at school, I’m used to toiling away in near silence. (I recognise the privilege of this.)

My home backs onto a small nature reserve and normally the only noise competing with the clacking of my laptop keys is the cooing of pigeons, as they flutter around the carpark below, heads bowed in what I can only imagine is a manifestation of their low self-esteem. Whatever! At least they’re quiet!

But that was before the virus, and the subsequent lockdown and the deep need for middle-class, suburban dwellers  to “make the most of it”.

As if the pungent odours of inappropriate dishes and rhythmic chainsaw were not enough, by week three another neighbour was teaching herself how to play a saxophone.

But it’s not all happening at daytime. Before the seriousness of the pandemic registered, pockets of backpackers were having little parties in their apartments, complete with singing into the early hours of the morning.

Lest you imagine with a sentimental glint in your eye that this was reminiscent of Italy’s singalongs during their lockdown, let me tell you: the lyrics of Queen’s We Will Rock You is not the morale booster you think it is when it’s being scream-sung by a dozen drunken Irish Millennials at 2.30am.

Speaking of screaming: with all the kids at home, high-pitched yelling is almost a constant.

And, if I’m being perfectly honest, my own sprogs are guilty of that particular brand of noise pollution as well. It apparently doesn’t matter how many times I tell them to pipe down and look at their screens, yelling comes as naturally to little kids as exotic cooking does to the middle-aged.

There is nothing to be done about any of it. I can’t complain when the truth is people are dealing with health worries and job losses and even death.

And when all is said and done, and the kids stop screaming for one second, I have to admit there is some comfort in hearing the sounds of people finding joy at such a bleak time. It does give me a sense of community and comfort, overhearing more than just the pigeons.

I only wish for one thing: that my neighbour would start following the current trend and switch to baking bread.