Dear Drunk Girls Outside My Bedroom Window,

Christmas is over, and New Year has not yet begun. I know that both of these times are cause for alcohol-fuelled celebrations, but we’re currently nestled snugly between those two dates. So there’s really no excuse for keeping me up until 3am with your loud and unintelligible cat-fights.

The dead days are for quiet reflection: looking back at the year just passed, making plans for the year still to come. It is a time for family and friends and other loved ones, and for showing how much you care. It is not a time for you to cluster below my window and screech at one another about some bloke. Or possibly some woman; it’s really impossible to tell.

Who can I blame? I could blame The Corona, the pub on the corner outside which you congregate, for not moving you along. I could blame the taxi drivers for not arriving quickly enough to whisk you home so you can eat your kebab, drunk-dial your ex, and fall asleep with your shoes still on. I could blame the local police for thinking that drunk girls shouting is “just a bit of harmless fun”, and driving straight past you. I could blame alcohol licensing laws, pubs selling cheap booze, or a society that thinks it’s OK for girls to puke alcopops in the gutter.

But I won’t. Instead I will insert my earplugs, put my pillow over my head, or go and sleep in the spare room. I will write sarcastic letters that you will never see. I will complain about it for a while, and then it’ll be January and I’ll forget you even existed. Until next year.