There's nothing worse, during the fading summer months, than sleeping with the window open after the witching hour has passed. Whilst local members of the inebriation society, with slow and meandering deliberation, make their way back to their respective roosts.
Just as you finally feel yourself dozing off, for the briefest of moments you believe that you have been transported back to the 1930's, as you hear in the distance the lilting tones of closed doors being banged on, or kicked, and furious male voices raised in unison bellowing "Let me in! Open the door you cow! This is my house!"
if it was the 1930s the errant man would have recieved dagger glances for months afterwards from the community
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