It’s 2am on Monday morning. I am once again awakened to a loud voice shrieking with joy and in apparent ecstasy. It’s my sexy neighbour, having the time of her life, again. She actually lives in the building next to me, but comes visits her boyfriend who lives beside me. We live in a heritage building, which means the walls are thin. I can hear every cupboard close and open, the showers turn on and conversations in the bathroom next door. I am certain they can hear me.

Knowing this, why wouldn’t they at least try to keep it down? I’m convinced that she is putting on a show for me. There is no way that her moans, sighs, screams and orgasm are that cool. I mean it goes on for hours. The breathing patterns change, the rhythm changes. Everything is so theatrical. It’s almost comical. Easter long weekend, I was entertaining the thought of sending them chocolate bunny rabbits with a note, asking them politely to eat a few rabbits, instead of acting like a bunch of rabbits. It’s distracting. I wonder what the best way to approach this topic would be with them. Do I slide a note? Do I make a comment next time I see him? I mean, I am very happy that someone has a sexual sex-life. But when my beauty sleep suffers as a result, this sexy matter becomes old, fast. Like Borat would say making sexy time is fun, but when should sexy-time be over?