It’s 12.30am and he is screaming and hollering like a loon in the moonlight. Earplugs are reached for and weary heads sneak under pillows, others make love louder and harder, anything to drown out the dreadful noise of the rowdy neighbours' late night domestic.
It’s a regular deal for them and everyone in yelling distance lets them get on with it as he is the sort of guy who could just turn psycho and follow you to work if you interrupted him mid-domestic. He’s lean and ripped like a middleweight, good looking until he opens his mouth to let the swear words form. His body almost shakes when he walks as if the hate inside is fighting to get out.
She gives as good as she gets. I’ve heard her before yelling out the window at builders. 'You bastards! I want my f***ing money. I want my f***ing money.' 'I want my f***ing' the council house mantra. Her emotional pendulum always swinging between rage and tears.
Usually ends up with the police being called (by the builders, bemused or antagonised) and her pulling the old weepy woman routine – though she is anything but. She asks her man to take the rubbish out and locks the door. Throws his clothes out of a window in the rain. Pisses in his drink when he is too hammered to notice (or so she claims). Slams doors all through the night to underline her rage. Munch's 'Scream' on a loop for eternity.
And so she and her man are strangely made for each other – equal in their shared bile and devilishment. We are just the poor sods who have to listen.