Currently playing at high volume in the flat next door, forest-dwelling twat Mr. Sting's latest masturbatory, mandolin-twanging opus.
It's only been every night for two weeks, so I feel there are hidden depths to Mr. Sting's twee warblings that I haven't yet plumbed.
Still, my patience is starting to wear rather thin.
In fact, when I think of Mr. Sting prancing around his country estate serenading the local flora and fauna like a great joyous giggletit, it makes me want to drown myself in a boiling kettle.
Mind you, this is the same Mr. Sting who confessed that, thanks to his practice of tantric sex, he can pump Mrs. Sting for up to three hours without reaching orgasm.
I understand entirely - I've seen Mrs. Sting.