I am personally rather enjoying this weather.  It has been my first winter in a cold country for 3 years, so there is a definite novelty factor.  Although I am determined not to become one of those irritating Brits who moves back from Oz and bangs on and on about how cold it is (in the middle of summer, just to make sure they definitely piss everyone off).  My clothes may be too thin, my expectations to high, but the temperature is just fine.

My one issue with the weather, is that it gives journalists unlimited license to use the word ‘chaos’.  Marauding bandits = Chaos.  Raping and pillaging  = Chaos.   Human people eating other human people (without a doubt) = Chaos.  This is not chaos.  It is an adventure.  And a really good excuse to turn up to work late.  And avoid doing anything productive for the first half hour while you compete over who had the worst journey in:  ‘It took you 40 minutes to get here from Paddington, really?  Well, I know how just you feel because I actually set off yesterday.  And Pete here had to dig his way in from Stratford.’

Me:  Hey dad.  [Insert name of respected person] said that I was one of the most dedicated, hardworking young comics he’d met.

Dad:  It’s a shame he didn’t say you were one of the funniest.

Boom!  Take that, product of my loins! 

I love my dad.

The feud started when the man of the house got narky because, in the process of moving me into the house, we allowed our car to stray a foot over his driveway.  The doors of the car were open.  The door to our house was open.  A move of some sort was clearly in full swing.  “Welcome to the neighbourhood”, he did not say.  “Would you like a hand”, he did not say.  “Mate” (this he did say) “I’m upset”.  Upset?  Come on!  Australians don’t get upset because something temporarily intrudes on their driveway.  They get upset because something is vegetarian.  Or alcohol free. 

Plus, no-one needs to use chainsaws every day.  What are they cutting?  They are not building a house.  I’ve checked.  There’s already one there.  They live in it.  That’s how they are my neighbours.  They are not chopping each other into tiny bits.  They make so much noise, there can be no doubt that they are all very much still there.  The husband and wife converse in dialogue reminiscent of bad soapies – filled with melodrama and bitterness but no swearing, because heaven forbid the children should hear the F-word.  Because that’s what’s going to send them spiralling off into therapy.  Every morning, mother screams:  “Dennis” (names have been changed to protect the family’s identity) “get off the table!”.  To this, Dennis replies “MaaaaaaaaaaaMaaaaaaaaaaMaaaaaaaaaaaMaaaaaaaaaa”.  This is his variation on mama and he can sustain it at an alarmingly high pitch for an unpleasantly long time (I think he’s already mastered circular breathing).  Why is this woman’s child always on the table?  Nobody knows.

Yesterday I awoke at 7am to the sound of them throwing bricks, one by one, into a giant skip directly below my window.  For once the family seemed to be enjoying themselves, as they launched their projectiles into the air and watched them land with a jaw clenching crash.  I hate them.

The final straw came today, when I sprung from my bed at 5am in a fit of rage.  One of the neighbours was directly outside my window, whistling.  I live in an attic room.  On a third floor.  One of my neighbours had climbed a tree just so they could disturb my sleep by whistling outside my window.  ”Typical”, I growled, “the bloody neighbours are whistling”.  I was furious.  Until I realised it was a bird. 

I think it’s time to move.