**Diary Entry**
Blimey, that infernal racket again! Stomping over to the radiator, I pounded my fist against the cold metal. “Turn that dreadful noise off!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “It’s one in the morning! Sounds like a ruddy rock concert!” Emily, my daughter perched on the sofa, barely glanced up from her phone from her spot on the sofa. “Mum, calm down,” she sighed. “Talk to them tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? How many times must I talk?” My hands flapped in frustration, words escaping me. “Bloody… hippies! Been putting up with this for a month!” “Don’t shout so loud, Mum,” Emily warned. “You’ll wake Sophie.” “Good! Let her know what this house has become!” I flung open the window. “Oy! Up there! Keep it down!” A tousled head appeared from the third-floor flat. “Pipe down yourself, Gran! People are trying to sleep!” “Gran? Cheeky sod! I’ll have the constables here!” I bristled. “Go on then!” he bellowed, slamming his window shut. The music somehow got louder. Collapsing onto the sofa, a sharp pang hit my chest. My hands trembled; my breathing felt ragged. Emily finally looked up, concern flickering in her eyes. “Mum? You alright? Need your tablets?” “Get my drops,” I whispered. She brought the medicine and water. I swallowed it, sinking back onto the cushions. “I can’t take anymore, Emily. Truly I can’t. Used to be such respectable folk. Quiet, orderly. Now this…” I gestured sharply towards the ceiling where the drumming echoed. “When did they move in?” Emily asked. “Last month. Young couple. Seemed decent enough at first, polite in the hall. Smiled. Turned out…” I trailed off as something heavy crashed upstairs, followed by shrieks and laughter. “Sounds like a rave,” I grumbled. “Decent folks are asleep by now.” Emily stretched, yawning. “Right, I’m off home. It’s late.” “Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!” “Mum, what am I supposed to do? I’ve work tomorrow, Sophie has school. You sort the neighbours.” She gathered her things and left. Alone in the flat, every thump from above vibrated straight to my heart. Fetching my address book, I found the local constable’s number. No answer. Tried the duty sergeant at the station. “Go ahead,” came a weary voice. “Hello? Margaret Wilson from High Street. My upstairs neighbours have the music at full blast; we can’t sleep.” “What time is it?” “One in the morning!” “Right. We’ll log your complaint. A unit will attend when available.” “When’s that?” “Can’t say. Busy night.” I slammed the phone down, fists clenched. ‘When available’? Morning? Next week? I went to the window. The street was still and quiet under the lamplight, while chaos reigned inside. Guitars wailed, feet stomped, voices yelled. And no one cared. Thirty years in this flat. Seen neighbours come and go, children born and raised. We knew each other, respected each other. Perfect quiet after ten. And now this? Young ones flooding in, acting like they own the place. Parents probably bought them the flat – all money, no manners. A new song started upstairs, all screeching guitars and thumping bass. The walls hummed. I couldn’t stand it. Back to the window. “Turn that music OFF!” I screamed with every ounce of strength. “People SLEEP!” Silence answered. The din continued. Pulling my dressing gown tight, I stepped onto the landing. Upstairs. I rang the bell. Footsteps shuffled. “Who is it?” a man’s voice. “Your downstairs neighbour. Please answer.” The door opened on the chain. A young man peered out. “Yeah?” “You must turn that music down. It’s far too late!” His lip curled. “We botherin’ you?” “Of course you are! How can anyone sleep?” He scoffed, moving to shut the door. I jammed my foot in the gap. “Hold on! I’m talking to you!” “Don’t start, Gran. We’re in our own place.” “Not bothering anyone? The whole street can hear it!” The door slammed. Defeated, I trudged back down. It was worse inside. Full volume music, then loud voices – more guests arriving. I crawled into bed, yanking the pillow over my head. Useless. The noise seeped through everything, jarring my bones, my heart. Gave up. Went to the kitchen. Poured a cuppa, sat by the window. Peace outside, bedlam within. Sick of it. The rudeness, the indifference, begging for basic decency. Once, I was different. Energetic, decisive. Managed a library, raised Emily, helped with Sophie. People listened. Respected me. And now? An old pensioner – someone you can ignore, tell off. Expected to endure any nonsense from young louts. I drained the mug, stood up decisively. No more. Finished the cuppa. Right. Enough. I opened the cupboard, took out the hammer. Tom’s old one, for picture hooks. Tested its weight. Solid. Gripping it, I marched to the radiator and swung. An almighty *CLANG!* rang out like a bell. Again! And Again! The music upstairs died. Shouts. Running feet. “What the bleedin’ hell was that?” “That mad old bat downstairs!” came the familiar voice. I struck again. The clangour filled the building. “Mad old bat? I’ll show you mad! I’ll wake the whole street!” Strike after rhythmic strike. Upstairs, pandemonium. Feet scrambled, furniture scraped, voices yelled. “TURN IT OFF!” I roared between blows. “OFF, or this goes on ALL NIGHT!” Silence. Blessed silence. I lowered the hammer, listened. Finally. Peace. I sat on the sofa, felt my heart calm. Adrenaline still made my hands shake, but a weight lifted. The doorbell. I peered through the spyhole. The neighbours stood there – the young man and a girl. “Please open,” he said. “We need to talk.” “Now you want to talk?” I called. “Please,” the girl said softly. “We want to apologise.” I slid off the chain and opened the door. Ordinary young people. Lad about twenty-five, girl a bit younger. No look of druggies or thugs. “We’re sorry,” the girl said. “We didn’t realise how loud it was.” “Took you a month to realise?” I muttered. “We just… ” the lad started, but the girl elbowed him. “We’re new,” she explained. “Not used to how thin walls are in old places. Our last flat was a new-build out near Sheffield. Thick walls, you could play music fine.” “Where exactly?” “Sheffield suburbs. Big blocks, good soundproofing.” I softened slightly. Polite girl. Sincere. “See, dear,” I said, “Thirty years here. Used to quiet. Then this infernal din…” “We won’t do it again,” she promised. “Honestly. No loud music after ten.” “And what was that appalling noise? All drums and shouting?” “James is a musician,” she nodded towards him. ”
The next Saturday morning brought no drumbeats through the ceiling, only the welcome sound of Lily humming softly above as sunshine spilled across my kitchen table, this unexpected peace feeling like a victory hard-won but deeply earned.
No More Tolerance
