Hark! The Builders Have Escaped!

THE BUILDERS HAVE GONE HOME.

Thank the Force.

Until 3 o'clock today, I had to suffer impromptu renditions of classic rock hits being butchered (LOUDLY) by the builders next door.

There's nothing wrong with singing. Except there's a time and place, and some things are better behind closed doors. With sound-proof walls. And preferably without an outdoor radio. And frankly, if you have no rhythm you shouldn't be shouting it out to the entire bloody neighbourhood BECAUSE I AM TRYING TO STUDY AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU MASSACRE DURAN-DURAN AT A VERY UNPLEASANT VOLUME.

It's incredibly hard to focus on the irregular Spanish verbs of the preterite tense when you can hear someone yelling, "Are- you- gonna- be- mah- girl?" followed by some very loud hammering, some even louder drilling, and then a lovely duet of profanities between two other builders.

AARGGGH.

I rang my boss this arvo, and he said, "How's the studying going?"

"GAAAAAH."

"I take it...not so well."

"There's workmen next door. And they're singing along to Jet and Wolfmother."

"That's not good...did you tell them that this isn't a bloody neighbourhood audition for Australian Idol?"

At which point I had to crack a smile.

"Tell me," says my boss, "Do you have a lemon tree in your back garden?"

"Yes."

"Well," says my boss, sagely, "This is what you need to do. Go to that lemon tree, grab a whole lot of lemons, and start throwing them randomly over the fence next door. You might even hit a few of the builders."

Had they not gone home at 3, I might have actually taken that advice and started readying an army of citrus missiles.

If they start up again tomorrow and subject me to six more hours of Triple M played full blast, I'm going to bring out the big guns and hook up my iPod to the amplifier.

Let's see how much they like my Ultimate Girlband 90's playlist raping their auditory canal.