I miss my dead landlord
Over a year ago our landlord died. He was in his mid-90s and not in the best of health, though he still drove to the track to bet two or three times a week (down from his once a day habit of younger years). The man was deafer than a post. I got locked out once and stood at his back door, pounding on his door. I could see him (he was ten feet away from me) but he didn't hear me. I worked that door like it was my mortal enemy before he heard me (more likely he felt the vibrations). Holding conversations, as you might imagine, was difficult. By and by, we coexisted peacefully. He didn't mind the rare late-night party and we didn't complain when our kitchen was suffused by the smell of pizza and smoke on poker nights (yeah, he was a character).
But then he died, and younger relatives moved in downstairs. I think they might be deaf because the levels at which they converse and listen to music indicates hearing loss. Severe hearing loss. The teenage boy living below me makes mystifying very loud, room-shaking noises. It sounds as if he is hurling himself against his walls. He may be. I don't pretend to understand the inner workings of a teenage boy's mind (though I imagine sex takes up a lot of room). The upshot is that it's not creating a conducive writing environment. Hell, not a conducive living environment.
I think when Virginia Woolf wrote about having a room of one's own, she knew that room should not be perched above a heavy-footed teenage boy.
Sigh. I miss my dead landlord.