Blow me

I'm sitting here feverishly trying to write, write, write, while I bite, bite, bite my non-existent nails, working on what I hope to be the penultimate draft of a lengthy work of bloody art, no less, my first such make-or-break work, indeed, and a gruelling enough exercise it is, to be sure, while my neighbour is... bloooooooooooooooooooowing in my ear on her bloody leaf-blower - again! And it's not even autumn!

This is my neighbour, except without the leaves

As far as I'm concerned, she might as well be blowing me (and not in a friendly, neighbourly way, either) for all the bloody leaves there are out there on this pristine, clear and otherwise windless spring morn.

Now I know it's a First World kind of complaint. And I may even have expressed it once or twice before on this very blog. But... and it's a very big BUT I believe, she goes on with her blowing of invisible leaves for HOURS, regardless of the season and so frequently I think she must be using it as some kind of new age blow therapy, or perhaps she sees leaves where others simply see. The other, all too real possibility, is that her purpose is to drive me to distraction, which at least would give the task some sense, though that hardly helps my purpose as she succeeds so admirably in achieving this end.

I have taken myself off to other rooms in the house further from the blower to escape the incessant drone, even locked myself in a walk-in closet, all to no avail. The sound seeps in everywhere, like nerve gas. So now I have resorted to wearing my son's high-powered headphones, which do not remove the drone entirely - nothing would achieve that except removal of the neighbour, I am sure - but do reduce the volume by perhaps a third, while doing fabulous things for hair style and overall image as a serious writer of literature.