  Faint cheers in the background told of the matches progression as I sat quietly alone in my garden, small and high fenced all around, listening.
A baby cried two houses to my right, and an owls hooting told of the coming dusk. These hints of tranquility never reached realization as the sounds of traffic broke through every moment of silence available. Above me and airplane whined on its descent, returning from somewhere I would rather be. Seemingly deaf, my housemate turns the television up to a level that causes Al Puccino to act as a repellent to all self respecting wildlife. Another cheer is heard. We might have scored, but I find it hard to feign an interest. A car bounces along the nearby road forcing me to hear the occupiers taste in music, and suddenly I long for the sound of diesel engines again. There are two patches of daisies on my lawn, which I can see past the umbrella like washing line. They stare at me like two big white eyes on a background of patchy green skin. I wonder how they got there. Is this perhaps where the slugs that enjoy free reign in our living room at night, perform some kind of intricate mating ritual, and these small patches of beauty are the residual result.
I hope so. It would be nice for the slugs to serve some other purpose than to ruin our carpet. The baby keeps crying. Perhaps it is tired or windy, or maybe it shares my own allergy to the abrasive sounds surrounding us, and can find no other way to express it. I think back to the time I spent in the high Atlas mountains in North Africa and try to remember the quiet nights I shared there. Aside from the donkeys it was without doubt, bliss. It would be nice to live somewhere so tranquil and yet so full of life, instead of this soul less place. I spent some time in the Lake District eight weeks ago, and it was a calming influence to realise that I would not have to leave this country to achieve this. We do live in a beautiful country. It si just such a pity that we insist on ruining so much of it. 
