Before hibernating, these reptilian Casanovas have been at it like there’s no tomorrow. Now I’m having to lie to my colleagues about the sound
After the eerie silence of lockdown, city centre life is back, judging by the nocturnal soundscape outside my window. There’s a constant, happy burble of chat, occasional singing and, last night, a proper fight – broken up by a waiter wielding a fire extinguisher: the scotch egg, served as a main meal, is a powerful intoxicant. My consolation – apart from the fact it’s quite nice to hear the city becoming a city again – is that the worst sound of autumn has stopped. You’re expecting me to say “leafblowers” aren’t you? No. This is a more esoteric pet hate, “pet” being the operative word: it’s tortoise sex. My husband’s tortoises come into the house in October for hibernation preparation and it is, frankly, harrowing.
From the moment their heat lamp clicks on in the morning, my productive hours are numbered. First they rustle, maddeningly, as they wake and eat. Then, hopped up on dandelions, one of them will start ramming its shell repetitively into the walls of the wooden enclosure: thunk, thunk, thunk, audible across several floors. It goes on for hours: there are four tortoises and they appear to operate a thunking relay.
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