It's 9.30 on a Monday morning and all hell is breaking loose in one of the wealthiest corners of south west London.
If this post is more disjointed than usual, it's because I'm being driven mad by intermittent assaults on my eardrums.
Every week, at about the same time, a pair of men working for a contractor spend 15 minutes or so blasting air onto the expensive paving stones outside a luxury "townhouse" development behind the block of flats I live in.
Every week, at about the same time, a pair of men working for a contractor spend 15 minutes or so blasting air onto the expensive paving stones outside a luxury "townhouse" development behind the block of flats I live in.
There were a few leaves on the ground, six or maybe even seven, and they're chasing them, trying to corral them into a corner. Clouds of dust and grit are raised.
One of them wears ear-mufflers - just as well because the noise this petrol-powered blower makes is awful, echoing around the brick-clad walls of this hidden enclave of luxury homes. It sounds like one of those unsilenced mopeds beloved of trainee bikers. But this one's going nowhere, except to the next gated development which has a contract with the same property management company. And all the noise and stink of two revving two-stroke engines remains within the high-walled confines of this generally quiet zone.
For the rest of the morning we can hear their labours in the surrounding streets, as they move around the various gated "communities".
It's a sad refection on how easy it is for a privileged layabout like this writer to find an endless stream of things to complain about. Even in the depths of the worst global pandemic in 100 years, you find solace in moaning about trivial nuisances. But then it's the silly little things like this that finally break us.
The leafblower guy is cleaning the carefully calculated space outside these new houses, which used to be a wonderfully overgrown garden. The space is just big enough to allow a full-fat Range Rover execute a three point turn; assuming the person driving knows what they are doing. Sometimes they don't. So, more dreadful racket as the drivers mess up their turns.
But the leaf-blower men worry me most. At this time of year it's an unnecessary job, and it shatters everyone else's peace, as well as polluting the air. If it had been necessary, say in October when there are plenty of leaves to shift, what's wrong with a broom? Can that be more tiring than having a howling motorbike engine strapped to your back?
But now come pangs of guilt, because, however much that noise and the stink of two-stroke exhaust gas annoys me, at least the man has a job, and is paid something for doing this. Compared to him or many of the other thousands of people working around here to keep things moving, I am wealthy, thanks chiefly to having moved in here five decades ago.
Whether the wealth-gap between me and the leafblower is bigger than the one between me and the owners of those houses, or the even more expensive houses along this street (£4 -5million, at a pinch) is open to debate. Whatever the answer, the property machine has to keep on polishing its many assets, and it does so around here with alarming amounts of energy.
Yes, lockdown or no lockdown, let us keep the economy moving on, like those leaves, whatever the costs.
To get away from the racket I move to the front of the flat. There's some really loud effing and blinding coming from the pimped-up house across the road. Since December they've had endless streams of builders coming in to do something to what used to be a perfectly pleasant front garden. We wondered - are they going for a new bigger, deeper basement? For weeks it seemed like it, as a temporary roof was erected.
As lockdown came into force, the inhabitants and their many showy automobiles, large and small but all very noisy - decamped, thank god, perhaps to some other home.
In their place came new teams of builders and scaffolders and decorators. The work has been constant now. Occasionally some sort of boss turns up in a big black shiny pick-up truck and shouts at everyone at the top of his voice.
A terrible silence reigns. He drives off in a huff. The next day different teams of builders and decorators turn up.
More recently, one of the occupants of the house, presumably the owner, returns in his monster two-seater sports car, which is parked on that now horribly bleak, entirely paved area. No doubt there will soon be a weekly visit from the blower-man, lest any fugitive leaves from next door's verdant front garden should dare to encroach upon this immaculate parking lot.
(nb: owning noisy cars seems to be another trait of the super rich. They pay hundreds of thousands of pounds for "supercars" with huge engines tuned to make that fuck-you roar when they hit the gas. Which is often at 6.45am when they rush off to their personal parking spaces somewhere in the City or Canary Wharf).
A few days later, an enormous removals truck pulls up, double parked. Two men in red company t-shirts jump out and are almost immediately on their phones, as there's no-one there to let them in. They sit around for hours, their truck half-blocking the street.
Only very wealthy people can afford to hire so many workers, and not even to be there when they arrive, presumably paying them for those wasted hours.
Similar scenes are being played out at other houses up and down this street at any given time, and throughout most of the "lockdown" period. Every day massive trucks arrive with building materials or huge skips to remove debris.
But the leaf-blower men worry me most. At this time of year it's an unnecessary job, and it shatters everyone else's peace, as well as polluting the air. If it had been necessary, say in October when there are plenty of leaves to shift, what's wrong with a broom? Can that be more tiring than having a howling motorbike engine strapped to your back?
But now come pangs of guilt, because, however much that noise and the stink of two-stroke exhaust gas annoys me, at least the man has a job, and is paid something for doing this. Compared to him or many of the other thousands of people working around here to keep things moving, I am wealthy, thanks chiefly to having moved in here five decades ago.
Whether the wealth-gap between me and the leafblower is bigger than the one between me and the owners of those houses, or the even more expensive houses along this street (£4 -5million, at a pinch) is open to debate. Whatever the answer, the property machine has to keep on polishing its many assets, and it does so around here with alarming amounts of energy.
Yes, lockdown or no lockdown, let us keep the economy moving on, like those leaves, whatever the costs.
To get away from the racket I move to the front of the flat. There's some really loud effing and blinding coming from the pimped-up house across the road. Since December they've had endless streams of builders coming in to do something to what used to be a perfectly pleasant front garden. We wondered - are they going for a new bigger, deeper basement? For weeks it seemed like it, as a temporary roof was erected.
As lockdown came into force, the inhabitants and their many showy automobiles, large and small but all very noisy - decamped, thank god, perhaps to some other home.
In their place came new teams of builders and scaffolders and decorators. The work has been constant now. Occasionally some sort of boss turns up in a big black shiny pick-up truck and shouts at everyone at the top of his voice.
A terrible silence reigns. He drives off in a huff. The next day different teams of builders and decorators turn up.
More recently, one of the occupants of the house, presumably the owner, returns in his monster two-seater sports car, which is parked on that now horribly bleak, entirely paved area. No doubt there will soon be a weekly visit from the blower-man, lest any fugitive leaves from next door's verdant front garden should dare to encroach upon this immaculate parking lot.
(nb: owning noisy cars seems to be another trait of the super rich. They pay hundreds of thousands of pounds for "supercars" with huge engines tuned to make that fuck-you roar when they hit the gas. Which is often at 6.45am when they rush off to their personal parking spaces somewhere in the City or Canary Wharf).
A few days later, an enormous removals truck pulls up, double parked. Two men in red company t-shirts jump out and are almost immediately on their phones, as there's no-one there to let them in. They sit around for hours, their truck half-blocking the street.
Only very wealthy people can afford to hire so many workers, and not even to be there when they arrive, presumably paying them for those wasted hours.
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| Truck jams are an increasingly common sight in the wealthy residential streets of SW4, even during lockdown. |
Similar scenes are being played out at other houses up and down this street at any given time, and throughout most of the "lockdown" period. Every day massive trucks arrive with building materials or huge skips to remove debris.
Sometimes they meet head-on and a sort of macho trucker showdown ensues. And all for what? Houses that were fully refurbished three or four years ago are undergoing another total gutting, to suit the whims of their latest owners.
But at least these guys have jobs.
I've had several decades of being the strange old recluse on the top floor. I could name hundreds more annoying things my wealthier neighbours do. But you would almost certainly dismiss them as the ravings of a deranged and bitter old fool. And you would be right!
But at least these guys have jobs.
I've had several decades of being the strange old recluse on the top floor. I could name hundreds more annoying things my wealthier neighbours do. But you would almost certainly dismiss them as the ravings of a deranged and bitter old fool. And you would be right!
