Once Upon A Doorbell

Once upon a doorbell, a relentless finger did prod. Over and over and over and over. More overs than that. More overs than a one-day cricket match. And far less fun to put up with.

I do not know to whom this relentless finger is attached, but I know this: it is an emotionally unhealthy finger. It is a finger of impatience and frustration and self-centredness. It is the finger of some as-yet-unseen neighbour from the building next door, and I deeply hope that it belongs to a child, not an adult. An incessant ding-donging of a tantrum is slightly less infuriating in a child. In an adult, it makes me want to go over there and hit him (or perhaps her) on the head with some good anger management books.

I have a theory about the building next door, because I've noticed rather a lot of hitting-on-the-head-with-anger-management-books inspiring behaviour coming from there. There's a woman who screams blue murder at her sons. Sometimes her husband joins in. Occasionally I hear her sons screaming at each other, followed by her admonishing them not to raise their voices like that. Hmmm. I wonder where they picked up that nasty habit? There's a man who beats his dog viciously, one neighbour told me, although I have not seen him do this (but have the CUPA number ready in case I ever do), and of course, there's The Finger.

Perhaps it's the building they live in that brings out the "Hyde" in their manner (pun intended there, but you'll only get it if you know the name of the building next to mine). It could all boil down to bad vaastu. Or feng shui. Or both. I have noticed a horribly cluttered verandah on the ground floor. Maybe I should go over and do some tidying for them. Or maybe I'll just draw my curtains closed in the evening, practise deep breathing when Finger meets doorbell, and be glad that I can find material for my blog in the most unlikely places. That attitude might ensure that even if they don't, this tidy pacifist will live happily ever after.