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Title : OH FOR A BIT OF PEACE AND QUIET...
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OH FOR A BIT OF PEACE AND QUIET...

Is it just me, I wonder?  Am I deluded in my memory of things being much quieter in my youth when it came to neighbours sitting out in their gardens enjoying the sun?  I seem to remember gentle murmurs of laughter and subdued ripples of convivial conversation, carried on balmy breezes across the garden hedges or fencing.  The faint clink of cups on saucers as families and friends indulged in tea and sandwiches, and lemonade for the kids who quietly played with their toys nearby.  Am I the only one who recalls it that way, or is it a false memory of something that never actually was?

Nowadays, it's all effin' and blindin', growlin' and roarin', shoutin' and swearin', singin' and screechin', and radios blaring away at full volume, while kids scream at the top of their voices as they run around unchecked, adding to the cacophony.  It's no longer tea and lemonade, but rather beer, wines and spirits being quaffed, which perhaps accounts for another element, absent in my day, of a strong sense of barely-suppressed aggression which seems to permeate proceedings, threatening to burst forth at any moment and spoil the fun.

And when I say 'fun', I'm talking about what the participants in these melees presumably derive from such occasions, because it's certainly no fun for anyone wanting to simply sit contendedly in their gardens and relax in the warmth of the sun, listening to birds chirping in the trees or gazing at aeroplanes flying overhead in the distance.  Gardens were once considered places of peace and quiet, an oasis, where families could laze in deckchairs and forget their troubles and woes for a brief-but-ever-so-welcome spell.  When I hear the noise that emanates from some nearby gardens nowadays, it sounds more like war-torn Beruit, or a fight at an Old Firm football match.  (I'll let you decide for yourselves which is the worse option.)

My nerves are frazzled within no time when I'm out in either of my gardens, and that's only to fill the bird-feeders and water dishes, or to deposit household waste in any of our four bins.  (Oh for the days of one single refuse receptacle.)  Am I alone in my feelings about this, or is there anybody else out there who feels the same?  Or have I simply metamorphosed into an intolerant old fart like Victor Meldrew now that I'm of a certain age, and am out of step with everyone else?

Feel free to express yourselves (whatever your opinion) in our ever-lovin' (and far too often neglected) comments section.    

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