For Whom the Bell Tolls

With slightly cloudier skies and what feels like a drop in temperature, we may have less activity on the outreaches of the Dower House estate and I can decrease the number of blood pressure pills I consume.

And all this because I have developed into a shouty old lady.

I shout at incontinent, beer swilling young men who hug trees not 15 yards from our patio door while relieving themselves of their bladder contents.

I shout even more loudly, with menace in my voice, at young men who feel free to expose their nether regions full frontally while urinating through the park railings opposite our patio door into our space.

I shout at young student neighbours who feel it acceptable to kick a rugby ball on the grass area outside our windows while the space of the Meadows lies over the nearby railings.

I shout at youths who, when finding there is no quick way in to the big outside space from our private estate, climb over the spiked railings endangering parts of themselves, the results of which would not be pleasant to witness.

I shout and curse silently all the picnickers who burn the grass of the Meadows with their barbecues and leave all their rubbish behind in situ for the bin men to clear up. What sort of upbringing did they have I wonder.

I am beginning to remind myself of a certain Mrs Oliver of my youth who rapped on her window every time we kids of the street did something to which she objected.

Perhaps this impatience with youthful behaviour is a side effect of increasing age.
In which case I must try and ignore it and shed the years.

This bell, which I have never noticed before, is situated high up on the north outside wall of Greyfrairs Church in Edinburgh.