Saturday night buzzes with a familiar soundtrack. The low rumble of buses and the idling car with a dizzying bass can make the loose pane in the front door tremble. At twelve, or just after, there'll be the clatter, slam, lock of the shop window shutter.
Once in a while a shrill, late night post-pub spat punctures a stretch of dark quiet before fade out.
Early Sunday and the volume is turned right down and the place seems altogether more sleepy. My drowsy band of slippered feet and tea sippers and the muffled drumming of next door's washer on spin make up the morning's background score.
Sometimes there is a window of four or five or six seconds of silence.
Sometimes you notice it.