Indian music, I'm sure it has a specific name.
Kula Shaker tried to popularise it in the 1990s but even the sizable musical powers of Crispian Mills couldn't make it palatable to these isles.
Well I got a fucking blast of it last night.
She doesn't talk, the wife, at least not to me. I got a nod off her when we met in the laundry room there last week. I asked her how she was settling in? She nodded again and then looked down at the ground as if to usher me out without things becoming uncomfortable.
He talks, the husband, but only to complain about the bins. Sometimes I pass him while he smokes at the utility room door but it's a rare hello, more of a grunt and an exhale.
They fight. She gives him dog's abuse with the shrillest sounds this side of Anneka Rice while he gives it 'what the fuck did I come home to this for?' by way of response. It's all in the intonation even though the floorboards (thin as they are) rule out specifics.
Last night things were ratcheted up a notch. Screams and shouts and hurried speech, crying and wailing (his) and accusations and tirades (hers). Pots and pans hitting the ground above my head and fists bashing walls in anger. Quite the domestic.
Then, suddenly, it went quiet. "She must have finally done it," I said to my invisible bedfellow. "She's gone and offed him."
Then, suddenlier, this...
For a fucking hour and a half.
The make up sex must have been tremendous, and they're definitely on to me. Spoilsports.