Bleeding Ears

Last week I was paid a visit by the Police. The reason for their sudden arrival on my doorstep was not to inform me of the arrest of the last little chav that attempted to steal my car. Nor did they take the time away from their desks to thank me for all the old ladies i've helped with their shopping bags down the years.

The reason for their visit was to inform me that a local resident was unable to watch their video recordings of 90's Liberal Democrat conferences due to the volume of the music I was, until that point, relaxing too.

The Police of course agreed with the understandably enraged pensioner, ignored the school children stabbing each other around the corner, and arrived at my door (which by the way, I clearly heard being knocked on) to tell me "The music may be a little loud".

I don't have a problem with authority. I don't have a problem with the Police.

Many people though, do believe the Police spend too much time dealing with insignificant matters - such as people listening to music while they are waiting for Dickinsons Real Deal to begin.

Had the Police asked the plaintiff in this instance to be vigilant, and exercise some community spirt by visiting their neighbour and delivering their complaint themselves, perhaps even having a cup of tea and a custard cream in the process, we would perhaps have one less 5 year old on YouTube having his mobile phone stolen whilst a machete is being inserted into his skull.

Of course, hoodlums were not really at war, happy-slapping each other over mobile electronics at the end of my street, but do you see my point?

Today, I am being confronted by the ultimate of public menaces. Not graffiti, and not 30 children in hoodies drinking cider outside the local Co-Op. No no no, something much worse.....The busker.

As I write to you now, he is down there, below my living room window, lurking. A middle aged man, who clearly has no job, or any musical ability, has been below my window for over an hour making sounds with a violin that if Antonio Stradivari could have heard, would have built lawn mowers instead.

The public, or passers by, shopping in the immediate vicinity of my apartment are doing exactly that - passing by - quickly. Luckily though for them, a few hurried paces and they are out of earshot. For me the escape is not so easy. It is impossible. I am trapped.

Bargain hunt is being watched to what sounds like a horrible rendition of the Godfather soundtrack.

What can I do about this noise? Close my windows? I've tried that - it doesn't work. Or, I could pop downstairs and politely ask the fiddle wielding tramp to move along. But that would be frowned upon, as that would lack compassion and community spirit.

I know! I'll call the Police! I'm sure whatever body they're pulling from the river this morning can wait while they come and deal with Mr Disability Benefit outside my door.

But hang on, what will the Police do. He's playing with his instrument in a public place, something which he is obviously entitled to do, as we do of course live in a free country. A democracy.

So, if I am to put an end to this mans street music career, there is only one thing I can do. I wait until he has returned home, picks up his violin in the privacy of his dinning room, then send the SWAT team round.

The offence of making noise in your own home will undoubtably carry a custodial term of 10-20 years, during which the prison service will provide him with music lessons, and the tools he needs to get himself a page on myface. But, at least the streets will be quiet once again.