Chinese culture week

Woe is me. The inevitable has happened: the construction of the apartment building next door, albeit having been progressing at snails' pace for well over a year, has finally caught up with me. That is, as of last Friday they have started putting up the storey that blocks the unobstructed view, from my balcony to Central Station, which I have enjoyed for the past eight years.

"In your face!" they may as well say. The noise, which invariably starts at 7 a.m. sharp, six days a week, has never been louder or more disturbing, now that it is coming from right outside my window. Just now as we slip into the Fall and it would be nice to enjoy the moderate temperatures during the day, my subconscious has taken to intoning, "Opening the window is classified M: masochistic. The breeze carries olfactory Violence, frequent coarse Language, and stray cigarette aSh," whenever I reach for the catch that locks the window.

As a token act of protest to assuage my feelings of powerlessness in the face of this affront, I have rewired the relatively mobile rear speakers on my stereo to become the front speakers, placed one on the balcony and the other facing my kitchen window, to play the four-album set of Treasury of Chinese Musical Instruments on endless repeat while I listen to something less cultured on bulky headphones. Do I delude myself in hoping that they will have moved on within the week?