Incredibly, the builders, who are not supposed to work on a Sunday so we get at least one day's respite from noise, started power-washing the Older Women's Co-Housing development this afternoon.
I am so sick of it; it's been interminable for almost two years. What's the point in complaining? The imminent new arrivals are wealthy, articulate, and retired professionals: judges, barristers. They have an extremely efficient press office and have already categorised their new neighbours using psychological profiling so they can manage any hostility we may feel toward their invasion of this little street. Their story is one of victimhood- poor women battered by life who can finally live collectively in peace to see out their days.
So I went out in my slippers, splashing through the freezing puddles to ask the site manager to tell them to stop. The one day of the week that we are supposed to have peace to write, think, and in my case, record.
Grudgingly, he went out and stopped them.
I'm taking a break from recording the BVs to Women of the World; two harmonies down, one to go. It's the very high one, and I've got a bad chest still from the cold I had three weeks ago. I'm waiting for the Sudafed to kick in before carrying on. I do love the sound of the kitchen, and I do love recording! All of us self-producers sitting with out Logic variants, making music that maybe nobody will listen to, but isn't it great therapy?
Come on Sudafed, do your stuff! I need to mix and bounce these tracks this afternoon so I can send them off this evening.