We have had construction in front of our house for the past 3+ months.
I've tried hard not to complain.
About the CONSTANT noise.
About the huge hole that they will dig one day and then not touch for two weeks.
About the tools left haphazardly in front of my front door (safety standards in this country shock me on a regular basis).
About the screaming Portuguese workmen outside my house all day every day (or so it would appear).
About the vibrating walls.
About not being able to park in front of my house for 3+ months and having to schlep the kids and the groceries almost 400m every time we go out.
About fearing for my kids' lives everytime they open the front door, because there may be a huge hole, or something else waiting to swallow them whole if I am not quick enough.
About the bruise the size of a grapefruit on my leg from where I fell in a hole covered with a broken wooden palette (so you couldn't see it was there - however I saw afterwards that they had put up some red and white ribbon in the vicinity for the weekend - apparently we weren't supposed to walk there).
HOWEVER, the thing that is going to be the final straw, the reason that I go out there and scream and throw things is none of the above.
IT IS THE MAN WHO IS SINGING FADO AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS.
That is the straw too many.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment