So this is the start of a new blog examining whatever new information enters my life over the next year (or so). Books, films, odd conversations, kitchen utensils, habits, addictions, distractions and abstractions will playout on this space and will stand as a testament to either the total lack of anything truly fascinating in my life or the simple pleasures (and irritations) to be had from the ordinary day-to-day.

First off let me start by introducing you to one of the "characters" that has chosen to inhabit my lifespace - my neighbour. We (my partner and I) only moved into our new rental property (the entire concept of house ownership is frankly too sureal to contemplate) a year ago after being driven out of our previous home by a loud and obnoxious neighbour. Not only was the new house bigger, homelier and cheaper, but it also promised a considerable upgrade in the neighbour department so all seemed well. That was until I discovered some of my neighbour's peculiar habits.
The first of these strange addictions manifested itself around Christmas time, and it's a habit that this enthusiastically embraced by my own mother - nocturnal vacuuming. Quite what posesses a person to start pushing the vac round at 3am is a mystery to me and one would normally rationalise such behaviour as belonging to some kind of obsessive compulsive or insomniac. However, whenever I see this sociopath in the daytime they always look well rested and chipper, which leads me to assume that this is more of a hobby than a medical condition.

Now, a few simply instructions to the newly initiated. To get the most out of your nocturnal hoovering you need to wait until the weekend when people are generally more tired and in need of their rest, and then clearly the best time would around 5am on a Sunday. Perfect. As you hoover your home with what should ideally be the oldest and loudest Cold War model of vacuum you can find at the local tip, be sure to clatter into every solid structure in the vancinity, namely skirtingboards, chairs and cupboard plinths. If at all possible you should whistle tunelessly throughout the endeavour, only by doing so can you maximise the aural rape you are dealing out to your neighbours and your own sickening pleasure.

The worst thing about NV is you never know when it will strike and you can only hope that you will deep, deep in sleep when it occurs to be able to wake you from your slumber. But more often than not the high-pitched sqealing of the vacuum penetrates your subconscious and you burst awake from some terrible Freudian nightmare about someone drilling holes in your teeth with a Black and Decker cordless drill. The noise isn't uncomfortably loud like party music thumping through a wall, it is the tonal equivalent of someone repeatedly tapping you on the forehead while grinning like a idiot. Sooner or later you will crack and will be left with no other alternative than screaming long strings of expletives through the wall at your inconsiderate neighbour.