Rebecca Roncoroni writes: 

I AM lucky to live in a beautiful part of rural Wight.

An ancient castle behind a field of trees. A couple of neighbours, well screened-ish. A mill pond all down the length, surrounded by trees, hiding a hill of houses all summer, including weeping willows, who, like Rapunzel, let their leafy locks tumble down, brushing the surface of the water. We lie on a single lane. It is country blissful.

It’s a beautiful summers day, the birds are singing, bees are buzzing, ducks and other water-fowl gently quacking.

We can just about hear chatter and laughter of people as they take advantage of this rare, glorious, perfect day to take a stroll along the cow parsley-frothed lane, happy dogs, children, people of all ages, abilities and speeds.

I can hear some rather fruitier language from the football field across the way.

But it’s all in good spirits and joyous to hear people having rest and relaxation, especially in these stressful times of semi-lockdown, Covid-19, an invisible, unseen assassin which single-handedly shut down the whole world and made us fearful of touching anyone, anything and forced the majority into house arrest and disturbed sleep fearing for our loved ones, but being unable to hug them.

Even while the government is assuring us that it is now safe to go to pubs and shops, we are told that in order to be ‘alert’ we must wear masks and be careful.

It’s confusing and frightening for many.

So, then some selfish, ‘it’s my right’ fires up their chainsaw, petrol lawn-mower, angle-grinder or some god-awful torturous screeching power tool to ‘get on with’ some DIY or gardening and suddenly the peace and tranquillity are shattered into a million pieces.

I can’t hear the radio playing quietly, I can’t hear my audio book through my ear-phones, I can’t hear what my partner is saying.

The only way I can hear anything is behind closed doors and windows, inside, locked even further down by someone who clearly believes their individual right to utilise their chosen instrument of torture, outweighs everyone within half a mile to a bit of tranquillity.

How is this kind, polite or generous of spirit? The ‘I have to do it when I’m not at work’ excuse holds as much water as a leaky sieve.

Please could we have one day when we are asked to respect our neighbours right to some peace?

Please can we have a curfew in the evenings so that it is possible to have supper outside/put the kids to bed.

Is it too much to ask, in these stressful, tiring, worrying times to be able to sit in my garden with a cuppa, book and just birdsong? Or be sitting the requisite two metres away from my mate for a natter?

Can we agree say, a Sunday off every week, all bank holidays and a 7pm curfew? Am I being unreasonable?