Dear upstairs neighbour,
For the love of [Stephen Fry / Eric Kripke / Bruce Campbell ~~ delete deity as appropriate] and your own body, will you hold the goddamned drilling at eight o’clock in the fucking morning!
Other people live in this block of flats - that’s why they’re called RESIDENTIAL - and I’m sure everyone would be much happier and more much well-adjusted if you’d stop pounding at the walls and drilling at what sounds like tungsten fucking carbide well before the actual allowed hour of 9am.
I wouldn’t mind so much if it were just one morning, but five in a row? What in the present continuous Hell can you be doing for five fucking mornings to such a weeny-assed bloody flat? There’s only six hundred feet in the first place, and most of them do not contain walls. So unless you’re Great Escape-ing through to next door, cut it the fuck out!
Next door has the most annoyingly small yappy dog in the the bloody universe, but even they know when to make sure it’s quiet and unseen. Can it be so hard for you to NOT drill till 9am?
When the entire block has had time to learn all the words to my Led Zeppelin and Bad Company albums, which I’m playing loud enough to be heard over the Mainland border to counter-act your noise pollution, I’m sure you’ll start getting other letters too. Just not in English, or in fact straight sentences that aren’t ninety per cent expletives.
Yours in a red rage of being fucked-off,
Your downstairs neighbour.