I was going to do it, really I was.

I was on the tube coming home and I thought, I’ll just get in, dump off my bags, have a quick wee and a cuppa tea and then I’ll go upstairs and do it.

I mean, I’d even kept my boots on and that surely is a sign?

But the more I tried to pull myself together and will myself to get up and go out again, the harder it became. The more I practised exactly what I was going to say and the polite (and slightly apologetic) tone, the easier it became to sink further into the sofa, snuggle under the throw and get comfy in front of the TV.

Of course I know it would be much better for my health in the long run if I had just gone and got it over with and I know that five minutes of slight discomfort would be a lot better than the countless nights in bed, blood boiling and rage bubbling. But the thing is, I hate confrontation. Hate it with a capital H-A-T-E.

So now I guess I’ll just have to put up with the fact that my upstairs neighbours like to do their laundry until 1.30am and that the washing machine is directly above my bedroom. That at night when my eyes are squeezed shut and I’m desperately trying to get to sleep and their machine is going through spin cycle, my fitted wardrobes shake like thunder and it sounds as if the damn machine is sitting right on my head.

I guess that's it then.

Goddamn that ostrich head of mine!

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