He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork. He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, sits a caravan park.
No one knows how this caravan park came to be built in this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council. There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.
He loves the quiet. It’s wonderful for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the 70’s. It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours. He thinks he’s sweet.
He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but will probably be many thereafter. That Saturday changed him forever.
Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours sleep.
Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was hard, but Sunday is worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.
There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.