I am blessed in many ways, but one area in which I am particularly fortunate is the Accidentally Overhearing Other People Having Sex department. This is something about which I feel unbelievably strongly: even the mere idea of this occurring sends my skin crawling and my hands to my ears wanting somehow to rip out my aural equipment. And I must say, I have been exceptionally lucky - the only time I have had to witness something like this in real life was circa 1999, when my then boyfriend lived in a flat that he shared with his sister on Askew Road, and one appalling night as we lay in his bed under his wonky shelves, we heard said sister engage in a noisy act of carnal love for what seemed like seven long eternities. I put my fingers in my ears, a pillow over my head and still was unable to prevent myself from bursting into tears. I have no idea why it upsets me quite so much, but I am eternally grateful that I have only had to endure said agony once in my life.
Until now.
It is a sad and well-documented irony that when one has been rejected, the world around you seems to fall in love. Unattractive, socially gauche friends with halitosis and no fashion sense, who have been rightfully single since birth, suddenly find The One. Everyone on the tube is giggling, flirting, kissing and making future plans to go to Paris. Flowers are delivered to every other female at the office. Your solitude is underlined with indelible marker every second moment and so, having navigated your way through each day's stinging reminders, arriving home should be like entering a sanctuary, an escape from these unintended recriminations and taunts.
Thus it was slightly painful when I was lying in bed on Wednesday night and became aware of a rhythmic creaking above my head. At first, I was confused and unable to place a mental label on the noise - after all, this has never happened in my current abode and I am victim to a particularly sweet brand of childish naivety that caused me, when my car was defaced in a Kensington car park in 1998, to believe that the vandals had keyed the word CLINT into my red door paint. Eventually, however, with a flush of embarrassment, I had to accept that my previously silent upstairs neighbours were now in the throes of passion and that I was their unwilling audience. Thankfully, he wasn't much cop.
Last night, I lay in bed, terrified that every small noise marked the beginning of a new round of mattress action. Each rumble of an articulated lorry on the A road outside was interpreted as a romantic overture, every drunk teenager shouting in the street sounded like the lady counterpart warming up to a crescendo. To my eternal relief, I was spared and eventually dropped off to sleep; then I dreamed of Paul and have awoken confused all over again. It's slightly frustrating: I do my level best to move on and the world and my freaking brain seem determined to make me mope. Mornings are never a high point for me, though - I'm off to distract myself with some yoga and an afternoon jaunt to allow my best friend, Retail Therapy, to work his/her magic. But be warned: if you're in love and in Borough Market at around 3pm, keep it under wraps. I will not be held responsible for any acts of jealous sabotage.
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