Chiming In

Who buys wind chimes like that? 

I’ll tell you who. A white trash boomer. My neighbour has crammed her balcony full of pseudo-spiritual tat from Poundland. Buddha statues and lotus blossom fountains are bad enough, but the chimes—oh, the chimes. They sound about as soothing as the metallic groan the hull of the titanic made as it cleaved in two. 

Why do I give a hoot about what my neighbour decorates their balcony with? Well, it has to do with being a light sleeper and living on the seventh floor of a tower block in windy Britain. The incessant rattle of those butterfly chimes consistently peels me from a light slumber. 

I’ve never laid eyes on the neighbour who owns them, but I can picture what they would look like. A hemp-fibre hoody, baggy trousers, an errant dreadlock draped over one shoulder. They probably have a ‘Live, laugh, love’ plaque on their wall amongst some other trite memorabilia like bungee jumping photos. 

***

Most of the time I feel like a floating brain that only remembers it has a body when the elevator breaks down and I have to walk up seven flights of stairs. Each morning, I’ve been trying to remind my brain of my corporeal existence by taking a walk in the park. My goal—to beat sleeplessness by setting a healthy circadian rhythm. Blue light filters and low flicker monitors help to alleviate the retinal fatigue caused by staring at a screen all day arranging shapes—just like I dreamed of in graphic design school.

The daily thuds and bangs from next door snatch my focus.

What are they doing? How are they managing to make this much noise?

I picture them rearranging their furniture to optimise the Feng Shui of every room. I don’t care how spiritually enhancing it is—no activity warrants that amount of noise. I see people coming and going from their apartment. Families, couples, individuals. But I’ve no idea what goes on in there. Could be pilates classes or massages with happy endings. Could be drug deals for all I know. 

My complaints about the wind chimes were ignored, so I’ve forged a letter from the letting agent citing a community vote to remove them. In reality, the only member of that community is me. I keep the letter in my pocket, ready to draw it like a weapon as soon as I work up the nerve to shove it through their letterbox. I’ve been carrying it around for a week.

***

As I leave the apartment for my daily walk—debating whether or not to shoot the letter through the metal flaps and do a runner—I hear my neighbour, standing in her doorway saying goodbye to what looks like customer. I try to avoid eye contact. She sees me locking my door and strikes up a conversation. I strain hard to smile.

‘I hope my wind chimes aren’t bothering you?’ 

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘My dog finds them very soothing.’

Her dog! What about her human neighbours? Does she ever think about those?

I’ve definitely seen a hokey grey statue of a Schnauzer on her balcony that has never moved a muscle—but no signs of a living breathing canine.  

She’s a plump, jolly woman, dressed a little like a storm-chasing-national-geographic-subscriber and a lot like a tie-die wearing wheatgrass-guzzler. Her khaki utility vest and flowing rainbow robes don’t mesh well.

I cut the chit-chat and skulk off to the park, burning with white hot rage because I didn’t confront her about the wind chimes. 

I’ll post the letter later. I have to for my own sanity. I need to sleep.

***

We meet in the hallway again the next morning. She invites me in for a ‘brew’ this time like we’re old mates. I wince at the thought of quaffing anything resembling wheatgrass. But something enticing about her voice leads me to accept her invitation. I start to believe that if I try to understand her, maybe I’ll begin to tolerate her noise. And perhaps if she hears my side of the story about the chimes it will give her pause for thought. 

Relieved at receiving a palatable beverage, I slump into the comfortable concaveness of a beanbag and quaff green tea. To my surprise, Rose is an articulate, intelligent woman—which doesn’t account for her horrendous taste in decor. There are dozens of amateurish water colour renderings of her conspicuously absent Schnauzer adorning the purple walls. We chat, and she confirms my hunch that her visitors are mostly clients. She’s a psychic who practices hypnotherapy. 

‘Blimey. So you can predict bad things then steer people away from them? You’re the full package!’ I say.

She doesn’t pick up on the irony in my voice. Most British people are born with built in sarcasm detectors, but hers appears to be defective.

‘I like your pixie cut,’ She says. 

Her earnestness and niceties wear me down and I wind up telling her that I have trouble sleeping. Spilling my guts to strangers isn’t my style, but her sympathetic tone opens me right up. 

‘I deal with insomnia quite regularly,’ She says, ‘It’s quite an easy fix.’

She convinces me that my sleep troubles are well within her remit and offers me some discounted treatments. Her benevolence is almost sickening. She even agrees to remove the wind chimes. The forged letter is burning a hole in my pocket. Thank god I didn’t post it.

***

The hypnotherapy sessions are completely painless. Pretty quickly, I’ve found myself drifting off to sleep sooner and sooner each night and waking up more refreshed. 

Her taste in music isn’t bad either. I couldn’t help but notice the shelves packed with vinyl in her therapy room. It seems that I completely misjudged her. We both like listening to Pink Floyd through headphones in the dark.

***

I step onto my balcony to stretch after an epic sleep. I see the chimes dangling on Rose’s balcony again. I slept right through the gale force winds—and apparently—the wind chimes. 

Now that I hear them again they sound like gentle tinkling, not a tone deaf child let loose in a music shop mindlessly bashing on every instrument. They have their own mischievous appeal, just like their impish owner. What once was a garish piece of bric-à-brac has become a charming knick knack.

Now I sleep soundly through the night because Rose has fixed me. Though I still don’t understand how such an angel of a person can line the pockets of those schlockmeisters at Poundland. My only explanation is that during Rose's training as a hypnotist, the instructor programmed her with a lust for hoarding cheap tat, then threw away the safe word. 

*** 

I see Rose amble out through the sliding glass door onto her balcony. She begins watering (what look like) plastic plants. Raising the watering can to me, she does a curtsy in her rainbow robes, then bends down to stroke her Schnauzer. It remains completely motionless. The butterfly chimes tinkle in the remnants of the storm’s gale.