Already I can hear The Ballad of the Garden Goblin

Ah yes. Her.

The woman who single-handedly convinced the entire neighbourhood that noise pollution is actually a personality trait.

There she is, cackling away before the sun’s even thought about going to bed. Somewhere between a hyena and a faulty car alarm, her laugh has colonised every garden within a half-mile radius like an invasive species nobody asked for.

The moment that sun is out, out comes the voice. That fucking voice. Forged somewhere deep in the EastEnders writers’ room, apparently. You’d think she was trying to be heard by the producers. She’s not acting. She just lives like that.

“OH MY GAAAWD.” Yes love, we know. We ALL know. The entire postcode knows. The international space station has filed a noise complaint.

“NO I AIN’T!” Spoiler: she is. She absolutely is. Whatever it is. She is.

By 11pm she’s three proseccos deep and the volume dial has snapped clean off. By midnight she’s reached frequencies only dogs and suffering neighbours can detect. By 1am she’s essentially a human air raid siren in a Primark maxi dress.

You know the sort… The Karen cut. Dirty blonde, aggressively maintained, radiating the energy of someone who has definitely asked to speak to the manager of a Wetherspoons.

She probably drives a white Evoque or a Juke, depending on which morning she wakes up and chooses chaos, and she parks with the confidence of someone who genuinely believes the highway code was written by people with less important places to be.

She is, in short, a force of nature.

An unwanted one. Like a thunderstorm at a barbecue.

Bless her.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​