I don’t mind, I swear I don’t.
I don’t mind stepping around the abandoned beer cans in the stairway on my way to work in the morning.
I don’t mind that weird lingering smell in the vestibule.
I don’t mind the drunk girl who runs about her flat in high heels at 5 a.m, bleating like a spring lamb. I think her childlike joy is sweet. I really do.
I don’t mind that you think siesta hour is the ideal time for a flamenco party. Sleep is overrated anyway.
I don’t mind that most of you stare at me silently with vacant saucer eyes when we pass in the stairway. Unable to crack a smile or muster up the customary two syllable ‘hola’ or even ‘hello’ in reply to my greeting. You were obviously raised by wolves back home.
No, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.
Wolves actually have excellent social skills.
I don’t mind that the father of the family squatting upstairs is most probably a pickpocket. At least when he heads out to work wearing a different British football T-shirt every evening, we smile and ask each other how the day went.
The one thing I do mind. The one thing I can’t stand anymore, are her cries. I’ve lived with her howls of rage and frustration for three days now. I’ve never heard such plaintive pain in a voice and it haunts me day and night.
So please, dear neighbour, for the love of god, if there is any decency in you.
When this cycle is over, neuter your horny little cat.