Ageing stupor makes me party pooper

Why on earth did he invite Amy Winehouse to his birthday party?

Not only is she a drooling junkie, I bet she can't tie a knot in a balloon animal to save her life.

And that's the least you should expect from a person who arrives at every event she attends spattered in clown make-up.

No, Amy is the type of person who should be shunned at all shindigs.

Perhaps the people I hate the most are my next-door neighbours.

I hate them so much I seriously considered moving to a castle with its own moat and drawbridge.

Then I looked at my wage packet, and realised if I genuinely wanted some space, my only option was to pitch a twenty-five quid tent on Spaghetti Junction.

But why do I hate the neighbours?

Probably the loud parties they always throw; parties that would put Nelson's to shame.

A few years ago, I was very open-minded about such things.

That was because I was too busy hosting noisy parties to hear the noise from the noisy parties next door.

The only thing that annoyed me back then was those pesky elderly people who were always banging on my door, beseeching me to turn the music down a notch or thirty.

But now I'm elderly people.

I know this to be true because I tap my foot to the theme tune to Coronation Street.

My bones have been replaced by peanut brittle. I think policemen and high court judges look impish and cherubic.

Hell, these days I half-expect to see blotches of crimson acne on the faces carved into the side of Mount Rushmore.

Meanwhile, I'm deeply unhappy, most of the time. That's got to be a sign of full-blown maturity, right?

Anyway. Those dang-nabbit parties. There's been a development.

Someone has at last stood up to the tyranny of tunes; the dictatorship of dance moves thump-thump-thumping across my floorboards.

No, it wasn't me.

I'm a professional journalist, which means I prefer outrage to action.

But the sweet little old lady from across the way - she's a different kettle of feist.

A few nights ago, I heard her battering on Party Boy's door.

I put my ear to my own door - this was getting interesting.

"Uh, is it the music?" I heard Party Boy say. "Sorry, about that, we'll turn it down."

"No, you will not turn it down," snapped the sweet little old lady. "You'll turn it right OFF. There'll be no parties in this block. It's in the lease."

And you know what?

Party Boy did. Amazing.

Unfortunately I've not had much cause to celebrate.

At the moment I can't get to sleep at night because of a relentless click-clack-clicking.

The sweet little old lady from across the way has taken-up knitting.

I'd complain - I'm sure there's something about it in the lease - but now I'm terrified of her.

Not to worry.

As I said, I'm ageing rapidly. Which means because of the build-up of wax in my ears, I soon won't be able to hear anything at all.

Bliss!