Thoughts running like p*ss down a drain...
One for you Gang of Four fans out there.
I'm still reeling from Sunday night's domestic in my neighbouring flat. Twas the last night before the first day back at school. I was knackered from three consecutive nights of fitful, beer inflected sleep. I needed rest badly. But then...
The crash of crockery started it. Then the raised voices. Holy s**t there was a domestic going on in the flat next door!!! Yelling, coarse language, more crockery smashing. Do we call the police? Do we go round and interfere? With each passing scream our procrastinating felt worse. We don't know these people, so what do we do?
Someone else must've rang the police because they showed up and things went eerily quiet. Then a policeman came round to interview us, me in my fetching not-washed-in-six months dressing gown. Never been interviewed by the police before. We couldn't really answer his questions with anything like helpfulness.
Anyway, the flat has been still ever since. Has there been an arrest? Have they kissed and made up (and presumably more?). The flat next door remains in darkness and noiseless to my untrained and, of course, unnosy ear. I can't help but think about it, though.
And you know what the worst thing is? Worse than my pathetic indecisiveness? This thought:
"I wonder if I can write about this?"
Luckily, I've purged it in decidedly rubbish prose on here. That ought to take care of that shameful little impulse.