“Oh, that’s the ugly chick next door.”
“Wow! Imagine living with that?”
“Imagine,” I said.
She has a nasal voice worse than any finger nails down a blackboard, I liken it more to grinding smashed glass into concrete with one’s bare feet. Our back yards are close, or at least the living parts of them are being terrace houses and she has a habit of sitting outside, rain, or shine and yapping on. She is loud and talkative.
It’s even worse when she sits out there with friends and drinks and gets louder and louder and more and more loquacious, although, I always find that word to sound sweet, like mellifluous, and what she does could never be called sweet.
She and her girlfriends have been known to serenade the neighbourhood at midnight with their awful singing. So bad is it that even the cats of the street are inside with their heads under pillows so they can’t hear. And always to 80’s songs, bad 80’s songs.
Truthfully, it is only ever on a Saturday night, all the other days of the week we never hear a peep from them. But, it can be all Saturday night, until Sunday morning. The insane lady up the back, with all the cats, has complained to council and called the police on them, more than once and they don’t seem to get the message.
A while later the ugly chick’s housemate came to the door. “She heard what you said earlier,” said he housemate, “You really hurt her feelings.”
Goodness me, I thought, I really ought to be more careful. But there was a grinding determination to her housemate that made me less sorry and more defensive than would normally be the case. “Surely, she doesn’t think she is attractive?” I know an involuntary smirk came across my face at the, preposterous, thought.
“Seriously?” replied the housemate. She looked furious, very intense was she.
“Well?” I could feel my jaw fix into a grimace as I played scales with my hands.
“You really are mean.”
“She must be the ugliest girl I have ever met. Seriously.”
“You really are a pig.”
“Funny, I was just about to say the same thing about her.”
“She is a lovely girl, and she didn’t deserve that.”
“I am guessing she is a lovely girl, I mean she’d really have to have developed a personality now wouldn’t she.”
Then the housemate just looked at me with her mouth open, as though she was waiting for something, what, I had no idea. Millennials. Ug.
The ugly chick has a lot of blond hair, piled onto her head. She is rat-faced, she has quite a beak on her. And she always has the expression as though she has just smelt shit. She’s a bit bozz-eyed, and she has a habit of casting her gaze about 30 centimetres in front of her honking nose, which, more often than not, gives her the look of special needs. I guess you’d call it a lazy eye.
I see her mother occasionally dropping her off at her front gate in her luxo BMW four wheel drive. Her mother is gorgeous, oozes Brighton which makes perfect sense of her daughter having a privileged upbringing that allowed her to be as loud as she liked. And now we all get to endure her entitled off-spring.
I gazed back at her housemate. “Um? Are we done here?”
“You could apologise,” she said.
“Oh, dear god, what you have done to the musical back catalogue of the world, even if you started apologising now for your transgressions you would, you couldn’t, live long enough to make amends.”
“We like to sing…”
“Get drunk and sing.”
“Yes, we like to drink…”
“That is not singing, that is elevating karaoke throughout the world to the level of the genius.”
“It’s not that bad…”
“That is ripping the intestines out of a cat to make tennis strings while the cat is still alive.
“We enjoy it…”
“That makes the sound Sharon Tate made as the Manson family hacked the eight month old foetus from her stomach sound like harp music.”
“It is just a bit of fun…”
“No, just a bit of fun is when all participants and everyone within the vicinity of the said fun is left with a smile on their faces…”
“Well, we…”
“Not parties to the “said fun” considering poking out their ear drums out with metal skewers if it continues any longer…”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” she said.
“And I just want you to acknowledge that I have never once complained about your god awful carry on.”
“Okay.”
“Not once.”
She just stared back at me. “Say it.”
“You have never complained.”
“And.” My hand did an involuntary twirl.
“Not once.”
“I think we are done here,” I said.
“Yes.”
I could feel my head tilt.
“Okay.”
I closed the door.
This conversation never happened, well, not passed, "Who's is that ugly voice," in the first paragraph. The descriptive details are all correct, but the actual conversation is imagined, after I said the voice belonged to the ugly chick next door rather too loudly than I really meant to.
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