Have you ever seen that FRIENDS episode where Ross moves in with Joey and Chandler? If you haven’t, you’re probably someone I’d describe as youthful and sprightly, so please feel free to search on TikTok for the premise.
I’m sitting on a train and someone of a young and sprightly nature appears to have sadly forgotten his headphones. In addition, it’s an early train and consists of one solitary carriage. I’ll light a candle for your loss and lack of foresight dear commuter, but on a small human level I hope the journey isn’t too much of a sentence.
I’m sure this has happened to most people and I’m sure it’s the start of a slow boiling recipe for a bad day. Being forced to listen to the distorted muffles of the train conductor’s next apology delivered in a way that’s neither convincing or carries any weight of sincerity or thought of consequence. Or maybe the battalion of rowdy, wailing school children with the same Lego haircut. Sorry buddy, this isn’t over for you just yet; no escaping to another carriage for you. You’re at the mercy of whatever the next station holds. You chose poorly…
I smugly revert my gaze and put on my headphones whilst consciously avoiding eye contact. No need to rub it in… Twenty minutes or so later when the train somewhat mercifully clears, I hear something off putting.
He who is sprightly has thrown in the towel and decided that those of us lucky remaining have earned some sort of terrible Dubstep reward. I dart my eyes around the carriage in hopeful search for an eye roll or disappointed tut. We could silently bond together over how much of a dick he’s being. But nothing. I take off my headphones and its antagonistically loud.
To rationalise the building frustration, it briefly crosses my mind that maybe he hasn’t seen me or the other five swaying bodies moseying through the carriage. But he has- he’s definitely seen us.
This really gets my back up against the wall because it’s unfair and screams inconsiderate. Due to some lack of hindsight, organisation or incident involving the headphone bandit, he’s forcing his woes onto the world and we’re now having to suffer. They even sell cheap headphones at the station where he got on.
There’s an etiquette for public spaces and I feel like it’s a frustratingly English trait to just grunt and submit to a situation out of fear of an awkward encounter. Although there’s the temptation to retaliate and prove a point with a deafening symphony of the best Pornhub has to offer. Instead, I regress back into my seat and stew silently.
But it’s simple, watch a show with subtitles, play a mobile game or swipe to the beginning of whatever social media feed you’re on. Otherwise, that’s life. Maybe I try the Ross thing? I doubt he’d make the connection and I’d probably end up on the internet for all the wrong reasons.
In fairness, I’ve seen this done before with most age groups, not just whippersnappers. Last week I had a woman in her late forties in the exact same scenario blasting Wimbledon or some other sports event. She felt right at home; she kicked her shoes off, bore her hobbit feet to the world and gave zero fucks as they permeated the carriage.
I wondered if she’d be as equally understanding if I was blasting one of the millions of football games that are on. Or maybe something a bit more niche like the UK flatulence contest.
YouTube is a wonderful place…
I can only assume she’d share the same enthusiasm for a live commentary of a gladiatorial guff-off to see her through the rest of the journey. Admittedly Wimbledon is slightly more appropriate, but it’s the same principal. You’re not in your front room, so put those piggies away-No one should have to see a stranger’s feet on public transport.
As time went on living with Burty, I began to try and make the house more homely, accessible and comfortable to live in. I’d previously tried to be sensible and make sure that if any work or decorating was going to happen to the house, any sensible, boring and necessary work like insulation, repairs and working lights would need to be done first. A billion years later when it came to decorating, I’d ended up going very vanilla show home rather than wild and out there. Which I rather like, but to some, it can seem very sterile and human centerpeddy.
Needless to say, and considering recent events with The Battle for Blue, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to create more communal space that offered the potential for social shenanigans with Burty and others. And so, it was so; after scrubbing through Facebook marketplace and clicking of my heels like Dorothy, the lounge was open for business. There were other motives though…
When I work from home, I’ll work in my room. That way, I’m out of the way if Burty is living his best life on his day off and it gives him time and space alone. I’ll venture out for food, bathroom breaks and of course tea. But for the most part it’s like I’ve disappeared. But Burty also finds the clattering of my keyboard throughout the day frustrating and irritating. This way, he’s as far out of ear shot as possible. In addition, the lounge would not only provide me with a potential break room away from my ‘work area’, but also gives Burty somewhere else where he could fill his day with whatever his heart desires, which is currently learning to play the bass.
Love it!
But one day, I went on a 15-minute exhibition in search for tea and snacks to see me through the remainder of my eight-hour work sentence. The day hadn’t been terrible, and I wasn’t feeling the familiar urge to scream into a pillow or consider my OnlyFans career alternative. Considering this, I may have hummed or carried a light tune or melody with me under my breath. I was feeling like Cinderella, carried down the stairs by singing woodland creatures with zero f**ks.
However, the bubble was soon popped as I entered the lounge. Although I didn’t really pay much attention, I saw Burty through the corner of my eye sat with his bass. Feeling unnecessarily similar to Minion, I scampered through to the kitchen, poured my tea and was on route for a speedy evac. If only this tea bag would hurry up and stew… so dramatic. Although I could always take it upstairs with the bag still in- No chance, I’ll spill it as I contain my excitement to go back to work. Besides, it won’t take a minute.
For some reason in moments like these, I tend to sing a limerick or two to fill a silence or as I walk past. Like a casual ‘I’m not even here, I’ll be out your hair in a second’ without the annoyance of repeating it every time. Consequently, I veiled my need to rush and get out of the way by singing bursts of a song as though it would somehow speed up the brewing process. But I’ve noticed other people do this when they feel rushed too, so I know I’m not too mad. There may be no interference, queue or someone standing over you, but you’ll feel the need to hurry in the air. So, a hum or a lyric modestly promotes the idea that I’m not dilly dallying or on my phone.
As I turned to return to doing something I hate but get paid for, I was met by a Burty with a rather unhappy face. He proceeded to explain how my bursts of Celine Deon was distracting when he’s trying to learn the bass. He wasn’t abrupt, confrontational or flexing his branches, but more of a Ross. I jested back as to what bothered him about it. To which he replied,
“It’s just horrible”.
Fair enough, I know I’m not the best. Bit bitchy… but sure- its fine.
Once I was back in the workhouse, I found something was different; My work glow had been stolen. The happy-go-lucky, shoulders back Teddy making it rain with good mornings was gone. But then it got me thinking and shortly after, I grabbed the obligatory pillow and took a deep breath once more.
The more I thought about it, the more riled up I became. Have you ever had something so benign and small niggle away at you? Itching your brain or constantly prodding you like an irritating child. I call it a Sasha moment, because sadly I often throw an internal tantrum in these moments. Distracting you from learning the bass?
Over the years of knowing Burty, there are few things he has great personal distaste for. These include whistling, humming or singing in a confined area. Not if its good, but let’s say if you’ve got street level whistling skills, you’d best be on your way. In his view, it’s a piercing noise that can disrupt the quiet or peace of the day which can often throw him off what he’s doing. I can understand this to a point, although I’m not quite that insistent on quality control. I can appreciate a good melody or jingle if it’s carried well. I’d go as far as to say I think it’s a very envious quality to have; the ability to be able to transform into Roger Miller and drop and carry a “Whistle Stop” effortlessly. But at the same time, I’m not one to strip away someone’s elation or expressiveness if their having a nice moment; they’re too few and far between. Then again, I may be biased.
But why complain about a distraction when you’re in a communal room? You can’t just claim a communal room for the day; it’s not RISK; you’re not Napoleon. Its public area and the chance you take, public right of way, but within reason. For example, if you were watching a film, television show, had company, giving CPR, meditating or hungover to name a few. But arguably not if you’ve just decided to set up camp out of choice when you’ve got two other perfectly good rooms.
But there’s an irony in all of this too. Typically, and understandably when you’re learning a new instrument, you’re not going to be very good. It’s part of the process and Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that gubbins. So naturally, most of the music produced is going to sound terrible. Also, when you’re playing in a house, it will tend to be heard wherever you are, unlike a keyboard clattering. *cough *cough
But I grew up with instruments being played (well) and my Mum would often volunteer and help student after class who were struggling, but keen to learn. But no one can have such a blundering indifference and lack of tolerance to any other noises, especially when you’re not exactly Flea, Lemmy or a giraffe learning to play. Although I can’t stress enough how the principles of practice don’t bother me in the slightest, its importance to have an awareness.
Burty has previously kindly offered to help me find a beginner keyboard in the hopes that one day I’ll be able to play the piano. It’s one of the instruments I remember my Mum would play, although in hindsight, somewhat counterproductive when you’ve put three children to bed. But with my long Jack skeleton fingers, I’d always imagined it’d be a great fit and something to try one day. But I can’t imagine trying to learn or commit to something like that with the current level of tolerance set so close to midnight. The pressure would be unbearable.
So, I’m confused, how Burty can learn two/three instruments at a time, which I think is great. But he can’t deal with me walking through and catching a snippet from Kerrang? I appreciate if you’re in the “zone” but in fairness and in contrast, at the very least I don’t have my track list set on repeat with the same bass notes. But instead, like a dementor or energy vampire, he’s purged the light and drained what little positive lifeforce remained for the day; It’s very dramatic. The solution may be to simply not externalise happiness, instead I must keep it within. I wouldn’t want the sound of my smile to dampen his doorway.
Upon discussing this further, Burty admitted this line of thought was irrational. Truthfully, Burty is very considerate when it comes to his own volume levels in the house. On the other hand, I’m the equivalent of a Minotaur in a playground, though this has vastly improved over time. Burty believes the former is an aftereffect to years living at home in the notoriously cosy maisonette with this Mum. The thin walls and small space resulted in a profound cautiousness of keeping the volume down or risk the bangs and bellows from the monsters in the wall. Understandably, Burty is more acute to the noises he makes around him and for someone so unbearably tall, he can move like a panther. However, because I was used to my own company, I would admittedly sometimes lack consideration to others with a zesty live performance snippet. However …
I think everyone has some sort of irrationality engrained in them from living at home. My Mum used to hate being bothered in the mornings. It sounds worse than it is, just as you need a coffee and a minute before you start another shit shift with three children. Although the one source of entertainment at the time was downstairs in the lounge, the mornings were her time, and so we were always conscious to stay in our rooms for just a little bit longer. It’s something that didn’t really cross my mind when I was younger, but I seem to have unfortunately inherited this trait. It’s my pointless and irrational irritation.
I’ve mentioned before, but more often than not, the Tree will awaken at first light before any living cockerel crows. Evidently upon exiting my room after a morning cry, I’m serenaded with bass. I don’t particularly mind it, although for some reason it can grate on me if it’s before a coffee has been ingested. But over time, the novelty of slapping some air bass on route to the bathroom wears off. It becomes too much of a good thing and starts becoming the soundtrack to your life and the only thing you’ll ever know. So, when it comes to disrupting the quiet or peace, let’s think of the cockerels and consider whether I need a bass line every morning when I’m brushing my teeth or contemplating whether this is the day, I quit my job. Although on a personal and selfish note, its rather excellent when you’re having a shower.
I’m aware I’m no Taylor Swift or male equivalent and I certainly lack the flare and panache of the likes of Harry Styles. But my singing is not that bad. Besides, I’m not cracking open the karaoke machine, plugging in a mic and lighting up a stage like Eurovision. It’s simply a jaunt or spring in my step or a friendly soundbite that comes from an anxious and irrational concern that I’m in the way. Besides, you’ll never catch me singing first thing in the morning.
One of the main reasons I love living with Burty again is because we were naturally closer when we previously lived together. Although there were maggots and tantrums, it was overall as filthy and disgusting as you’d expect. But out of that experience came jokes, stories, comforts, and slights of individuality in the day to day that I didn’t think I’d miss. Inevitably, one day I may miss Burty when he goes and long to hear his latest musical achievement, riff or slap.
It’s also satisfying to see Burty improve and advance with his practice. He’ll often travel with his bass and peacock proudly with it strapped to his back like a badge of honour. He’s also coming out of his shell and expanding his friend group to a network of people that have similar interests. I’m admittedly very proud and enjoy seeing him grow and develop.
It’s become clear that just as I’m used to belting out some Celine Dion in the shower or whilst roaming the house, Burty is used to his silence, peace and solitude. Additionally, I’ve found that by winding back and recognising my irrational irritation, Burty’s musical contribution can lend itself to lightening the mood on the morning blues with a comical bounce or slap. However I would like to point out that my contribution, in comparison, is seen as Satan singing Shakespeare.
But much like my anxious humming or singing when I’m in a rush, Burty’s bass is now also used as a similar way of communicating. Whether it’s to softly announce he’s awake when I’m trying to keep the noise down in the morning, announcing his arrival in the lounge, or probing the mood of the room with a comical riff. I can appreciate the sincerity, approach and substance to this and I’d much rather Burty feels comfortable demonstrating his new skills rather than hiding away.
Although…
Have you ever tried not humming, whistling, or attempting to sing? Jack Nicholson once said, ‘My mother never saw the irony of calling me a son-of-a-bitch’. Well, unless I can whistle like Dick Van Dyke or sing like a nightingale, it looks like it’s back to pillow screaming.
