Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er.
Always early to bed and early to rise, the plan to settle beneath the covers forty-five minutes ahead of the usual quarter past nine seemed like a right good idea at the time. The accompanying hope had been to conk out before the blasted noise started again in apartment 11-B.
Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er.
Too late.
For five bloody days in a row, several times each one, as the shagging began, so too did a needling urge to march right around the corner to ring the neighbors’ doorbell and confront the inconsiderate gits.
“Hi, Warwick Jayne.” The British accent, he’d been told, made him sound intelligent and friendly. “Spelled W-a-r-w-i-c-k, pronounced War-rick.”
The name thing was something Warwick had to explain all the time since moving across the pon
