Read Online The Whiskerly Sisters by BB Occleshaw - Free Book Online Page A

twenty month old twins next door were incontinent, drooling cripples, who needed locking away in an institution to avoid offending decent society), then one of the dogs would begin barking for attention and inevitably the other three would join to form a chorus so that her tranquil afternoon in the garden would turn into a snapping, snarling, baying, yapping, growling, howling nightmare.
    And if it wasn’t the dogs, it was the cats. In the rare peace of a Sunday afternoon, when the Designer Gooneys next door had mercifully all gone out, she would lift her eyes serenely from the pages of her magazine to let them gently fall onto the sun-dappled, leaf fringed edge of her shrubbery to the delights of the ginger one haughtily shitting amongst her lupins as if it was doing her a favour. Failing that, she might step semi clad onto the shimmering dew of her lawn in the promising light of a spring morning to begin her day with ritualistic lungsful of fresh air only to feel her bare toes squish sickeningly into the regurgitated, unrecognisable, half eaten entrails of some unfortunate creature left behind after playtime. And, if Charley was spared either of those particular pleasures, then you could bet your sweet life that, just as she settled down to watch her favourite historical drama, it would no doubt be accompanied by the exquisite, ear-grating undertones of a parrot screeching, “Nothing for a pair in this game,” followed by a prolonged cackle or an entire virtuoso of muffled, whirring, banging noises given out by an unidentifiable, teeth clenching, multi-functional drill.
    Inspired, she had bought a cheap tape recorder and had spent a very unpleasant afternoon taping the Hounds of the Baskervilles over the fence. Every time she stepped onto the patio, the totally inharmonious barbershop quartet of the canine world would start and continue for at least twenty minutes. She spent the next evening taping the incessant squawk of the parrot through the wall of her lounge and part of the following day capturing the noise of the children in the garden, accompanied by the unpleasant whine of the mother nagging at them through the French windows. When she had finished her discordant recording, she took it next door and pressed play, but thugjeans turned it off after five minutes, declaring it was a set up and he didn’t need to hear anymore. He then shut the door firmly in her face.
    Charley then spent several fruitless hours researching noise pollution on the net. It seemed there was little she could do other than waste her valuable savings on an endless stream of solicitor’s letters, which ultimately would prove useless, toothless and spineless and, since Charley simply refused to waste her precious money firing blanks, she decided to close down that avenue. She had then spoken at length to a very nice man from the Environmental Health Agency, who had advised her to keep a diary of the noise. He told her that someone from his department would visit the house in question to monitor the noise level after which they would get back to her. That had been weeks ago. No one had been in touch, nothing had changed and, when she had tried to follow it up, she was asked to quote her reference number and, as she didn’t have one, she was told she would need to start again.
    Undeterred, Charley turned her attention to drawing up a petition and canvassing her neighbours. She spoke to everyone in the cul-de-sac and also those in the immediate vicinity. She was relieved to find that, whilst she bore the brunt of the situation, everyone was suffering varying degrees of aggravation and delighted that someone was finally prepared to tackle the problem. One woman, whose garden backed on to theirs, told her that she had already been round several times to ask them to keep the noise down. The constant barking of the dogs in the afternoon was keeping her six-month old daughter awake and fretful. Uncharacteristically, Charley felt sorrier for her than