GFG: the one where she is a fuckwit

The precious peace that I wrote about in my post this morning quickly evaporated with the sound of Ground Floor Girl (GFG)'s persistent door slamming and her blaring music and television.

There is no way she can have imagined that it was acceptable. I could hear – and feel – the door slamming so loudly while I was in the bathroom that I suspected there was building work going on downstairs. When the consistency and familiarity of the sound/vibration revealed what was actually happening, my neck tightened and adrenaline coursed through me. I was on fire. I was as rigid and tense as a steel girder.

S emerged from the living room and I could see that boiling point for him was not far off. He'd been sitting there, having breakfast, enjoying what had been a relaxed start to the weekend, having worked hard all week, as had I. He has been nice to her, giving her the benefit of the doubt where, for me, The Line had been crossed a while back. He looked bemused and hurt.

All we have ever done to her has been neighbourly: pick up her shopping, take in her deliveries, give her wine, feed her, tidy up the (joint gardens), paint the (communal) areas, pay for the (communal) plants, close her huge window that she had left open when she was away and prevent bailiffs entering her place.

She has kept me awake – or woken me up – with the amount of noise she generates when coming back from a night out several times. As an insomniac (she knows this), I think this is tantamount to abuse and cruelty. And her attitude ("I don't think I should pay my share"/"I don't care about looking after the place; it's just the way I am" etcetera), stinks as badly as a dollop of shit in your freshly-coiffed hair. It's just not on. No. No, no, no.

We are nice people. We are quiet. We are considerate. She is a total cunt.

I was shaking with rage. I am fucked off with people treating me as though my good manners and general amiability are an open invitation to take the piss. I don't often lose my temper properly but when I do, I can turn the air bluer than the sky over the sea on a clear day. I was fully prepared for this to go down that road. And oh, it's nice to throw in a bit of blood-curdling logic when such situations occur.

I don't scream, but I suppose 'fierce' sums it up. It shocks people, and I find it excruciatingly unpleasant, but it has to be done in certain circumstances to stop liberties from being taken. Such times – and I can count them on one hand – are rare. I prefer to serve a dish icy cold – if I can be bothered to prepare it – when someone really needs to eat their words at some point.

It was just as well we'd already planned to go out as the mercury hit 'had enough' for S, who joined my level of disbelief and fury as she continued to pollute our peace. S screamed at her to shut up and I said something (that I shan't repeat here) as we passed her front door. GFG is surely wrong in the head if she thinks that it is OK to behave in the way she has. What? Does she think the stupid, polite people upstairs will turn the other cheek and say, 'thanks for the fuckage, please miss, can we have some more?' Er, no. No.

As we came back home, having deliberately stayed away from our home to avoid walking into a situation (which in itself is obscene to have to do), we saw GFG and her (poor bastard) fiancé leave, with bags in hand. He doesn't live with her – he is currently based in another country. Wise man.

So, we didn't wish her 'happy holidays' as they loaded up the cab. She saw me and stepped back behind her front door. I had my sunglasses on and she couldn't see my eyes. Just as well. If looks could, they would have done the proverbial.
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Listening to: Editors - Munich
How apt – the lyrics are perfect.