I have a fair bit of rage boiling up in my bed-head of hair this morning. The source?DRUMMER BOY.
A NOTE OF COMPLAINT.
Why, oh why, dear drummer boy, must you be so doggedly determined to play the drums so awfully EVERY day? You’ve really drawn the short straw on the drum-talent front and I suggest you look into some new (and largely silent) pursuit. Stamp collecting or some other boyish activity like climbing trees. You see, that daily two-hour drum practise you insist upon should send you helter-skeltering down the road to becoming some sort of musical maestro. Instead you seem to be stuck on repeat as you churn out hour upon hour of monotonous beat. A monotonous beat that reverberates RIGHT THROUGH OUR HOUSE.
You practice after school. That’s how I know you are a mere boy. I think I know exactly which of next door’s mere boys you are, too. You have a drummer’s look about you. And that’s why I give you a fierce glare whenever we leave our houses at the same time.
And although, drummer boy, you are the target of this note, I know that you are not really the one who pushed me over the edge last night. For despite your awful playing skills, you do at least keep to a regular practice time. 3.30-5.30pm, that’s your slot. And you only deviate on a Sunday.
No, last night, it was your little brother or sister on the drums. I’m certain of it. You and your parents were out, and they had the run of the house. For only if the house was empty of all adult authority could someone get away with making such a dreadful noise for so long from that drum kit. Dreadful and erratic. At least you, drummer boy, can keep a regular beat.
I was a bit of a pathetic figure last night even before the noise started. Full of cold, I was in bed with a hot water bottle and a box of tissues by 8 o’clock so to find myself still awake at 10.30, waiting anxiously for the next hit of the cymbal, the next clumsy drum roll, the next clatter of mish-mashed beats… well, it turned me into a little ball of fury. And little balls of fury don’t sleep well. So here I sit, Tuesday morning, even more full of filthy stinking rotten cold, grumpy, tired and ready to rant.