Mine was probably the dictionary definition of a first world problemā¦
The owner of the place next door is a posh guy who is rarely there as he works abroad. Brilliant. Never hear a peep. Then he knocks one day with his nephew who, he announces, is moving in while he has his house in Battersea renovated. Well, I say his house - he inherited it from his great uncle and itās been empty for years so is in a āright stateā.
His nephew is a concert pianist, and our hearts sink when we see him wheeling a piano into the house the next day. And that was it - practicing all day every day. Sounds nice on paper, but when heās trying to nail the same few seconds over, and over, and over⦠Or getting opera singers in to practice with him on a Sunday night.
He also wore a REALLY obvious wig (which I take as a personal affront) and rode a tandem which he left in the street outside. Also had the gall to put a Vote Labour poster in the window during the elections. Labour, eh? OK, Mr Inherited Townhouse. The work took the best part of a year and when he finally moved out we played this really loud as he loaded his stuff into his van.