I should really know the portents by now.
If I can hear them out in their back garden around 7pm, talking about 'who rode who' and 'who fancies a nice felch?' I may presume it's the traditional pre-pub preamble.
If it all goes lovely and quiet in the midnight hours, and I'm dreaming about everything from becoming manager of Queens Park Rangers to the smalls of Millie Clode's smalls drawer, they're getting their kebabs and heading for home, all 28 of them.
If I'm throwing off the covers in a successful attempt to find a new sleeping nook, they're searching for their keys and the front garden, simultaneously knocking over bins and falling into each other, sexually.
If I'm woken to the words 'THE DOG DAYS ARE OVERRRRRRR' it's because the loud one doesn't know any other songs, she just wants to be Florence And The Superfluous Machine, and it signals another night where I drag myself to the couch at half past four, seek out Lyric FM on the digibox and wait for the blue screen to fade to black, drowning them out and letting me kip.
Yes, if they're throwing a party (I remember parties) it means I'm working of a Sunday and today, dear equally bitter and lonesome reader, was that day.
However let this not be a signal of my miserability but an opportunity to let one barbaric 'YAWP!'
Let it resound to the high skies that this is my last week here, alongside them, them that used to be me, them that could be me ten years ago 'cept that I wore nicer clothes.
I'll be leaving them a six pack and a little note.