My phone goes off. Another reminder.
Gentrification article: 5 hours remaining
Here I am, trying to write about displacement and urban change, while my own building produces sounds that belong in a horror film. Material for the blog, maybe.City Living Hack #48: When Your Home Starts Making Unexplained Noises, Panic Appropriately.
THUD.
I walk to the window, hoping for distraction. The street below carries on with typical Tuesday indifference. Delivery van double-parked outside the newsagent. Schoolchildren in uniform trudging toward the bus stop with the universal expression of educational resignation. Mrs. Dan's arranging chrysanthemums in her shop window.
Normal. Everything normal.
Except for the sound that's now synchronized with my heartbeat.
THUD.
My cortado from this morning sits abandoned on the kitchen counter, cold and reproachful. The foam art's completely dissolved now, leaving behind a beige pool that looks vaguely accusatory.
I should be writing. Deadline in four hours and thirty-seven minutes. The gentrification piece needs quotes, statistics, human interest angles. Real journalism, not blog posts about proper café etiquette and the optimal time to do laundry in shared facilities.
THUD.
But concentration's impossible when your home sounds like it's being slowly demolished from within.
I reach for my phone and scroll through contacts. Who do you call about mysterious building noises? Landlord's probably the logical choice, but Ms. Cavanaugh treats maintenance requests like personal affronts to her dignity. Last time I reported a leaky tap, she spent twenty minutes explaining why modern tenants lack resilience.
THUD.
The sound's getting louder. Or maybe I'm getting more sensitive to it. Hard to tell the difference when anxiety's involved.
My laptop sits closed on the coffee table, cursor still blinking behind the screen. Seven hundred words about neighborhood change. Should be simple. I've lived in four different London boroughs in six years, watched rents climb while local businesses shuttered, seen entire streets transform from working-class communities into artisanal coffee wastelands.
But what's my angle?The question that's been haunting me for weeks. Every story needs an angle, my editor constantly reminds us. Can't just describe change, need to explain what it means.
THUD.
The coffee table vibrates. My closed laptop shifts slightly, like it's trying to escape.
Maybe this is my angle. The sounds buildings make when neighborhoods transform. The stress fractures in Victorian brick when modern life pushes too hard against historical foundations.
THUD.
Or maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe it's just the heating system having a nervous breakdown.
I check the radiator in the bedroom. Stone cold. Central heating's been off since May.
THUD.
Back to the kitchen. I pour water into the kettle, need something warm to replace the abandoned cortado. The simple ritual usually calms my nerves—selecting the right mug, measuring tea leaves, timing the steep. Control in small doses.
The kettle trembles on the hob. Water sloshes against the sides.
THUD.
The sound seems louder now. More insistent.
I text back:I think you have the wrong person. I haven't contacted police about anything.
Response comes immediately:Are you sure? Our records show multiple calls from your number regarding unusual disturbances.
