Written in flourescent pink felt tip in a shaky hand, under the window of a train from Kingston-Upon-Thames to Waterloo:

Just for today, I will try

Good for you, random grafittist.

That’s like a mantra now. I try every day.

I try especially hard when the weather is fine; when there’s football on the telly; when it’s past nine o’clock; when it’s Friday or Saturday night.

I try when I hear the front door slam. I try when I hear the sickeningly familiar thump-thump-thump of heavy footfall on stairs, or doors closing and bodies in perpetual moment. I try when I see that their living room patio doors are wide open; when I hear their buzzer go, hear friends gathering for the evening’s festivities.

I try when I knock on their door; try to keep my fists, stomach from clenching, try to keep my voice level, my words calm but strong. I try to remain firm, try not to let the Britishness of overpolite insincere language creep in. Yes it’s too loud. No it’s not ok.

I try to stay calm. I try to sleep. Try to block it out, think of something else. Try to sleep with the bathroom fan on; with earplugs; under the duvet. Try not to look at the clock.

Every day, I try. Just a bit more than the day before. I try every single fucking day, and I’m sick of it. Sick of trying. Sick of coping with it, trying to ignore, conceal, remain calm about it. Every day, trying a little harder. The strain of trying is abso-bloody-lutely knackering.

Did I ever say how much I love a good bit of tmesis?

With only four and a bit hours sleep under my belt from last night (that’s 5.15 - 9.30am, fact fans), burst capillaries under my eyes from being violently sick, and the weight of a hot day on my shoulders, I think I could be forgiven for being a little jumpy.

When the fireworks went off in the street behind, I jumped. They were pretty, but I didn’t expect them - another loud noise, another worry, another sleepless night?

Honestly, I’d love to post something more interesting here; but I can’t.

I can’t find the words. I can’t find any way to adequately surmise the nervous tension and exhaustion that comes with having a home which is beautiful, but which you can’t relax in, can’t sleep properly in. I can’t be comfortable here. This isn’t a home. It’s four walls and a flimsy ceiling; someone else’s perfect neighbours, but not ours.

The good news is that we can move if we can find someone else to move in (and, naturally, if we can find somewhere else to go). Anyone?

If for no other reason, I want this to be over, so I can shut up about it. It’s not very interesting for me, so feck only knows how desperately gloomy and dull it must be for you, you poor things.