There is something about the sound of a voice coming out of bullhorns attached to the top of a car driving by that gives me the chills. For some reason or another, it always makes me think of Nazi Germany. Irrational, maybe. But it's how I feel, and we all know that feelings have never been strong on the side of facts and figures.
I am acutely aware of noise. It may have something to do with my Manic Depression, or I may just be the aural version of the Princess and the Pea.

As I live in the City of Philadelphia, you may imagine this sensitivity would be a little rough. Happily, I have a few things in my favour. If my psyche meds keep working (sometimes I build a tolerance and crash), I can tolerate sounds that would otherwise send me 'round the bend. Also, thanks to a general crush on Fire Fighters and EMTs, I can handle the scream of sirens.

But my adoration of ice-cream has not translated so well to Mr. Softee, who dawdles at the end of the block all day long. The Diddly-diddly-di-dee-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-dee can drive me half way up the wall. I find it amazing that he has a job, at night, working either as a Police or News Team helicopter pilot that needs to lurk in just about the same spot, only airborne. Odd, also, that he seems to time his flights for just the time when I have filled the bath, so that my nightly soak happens to the wash of his blades.

The Supermarkets have perfected their own little Purgatory here on earth. Nobody wants to be there. Not one person. But they have decided to make it even more painful by playing the most gut-wrenchingly awful music they can lay their hands on. (I won't even talk about lighting). Why this should be is beyond me. It seems they have two schools of "taste". Muzak, composed of original music so badly mangled that you could make a quiz show out of guessing what it might have been. And then there are the actual original pieces, that you wish were muzak, because you know one line from the song is going to be stuck in your head for days, weeks, months. There are a lot of local kids making music out there. What if the store managers had them bring in their CDs, listened to them, and maybe played them for one day a week? How about a Classical music day? How about if the adults made mixes and brought them in?

I just want to thank the Reading Terminal Market for (as far as I know) not playing any piped music.

But back to the people bullhorning around in cars. It's not as if you can understand a word they are actually saying. So far, I have seen three types of people engaged in this activity. The first are those who are involved in politics. They are noisy because they want you to listen/agree/join/do something. Which is sort of hard, since they're driving away. I don't know about you, but I'm not about to chase a moving car for too much of anything. Maybe for some money. If it wasn't on film. Definitely if it involved saving a life. But for a politician? I think not.

The second are religious folks. Now, every week, some very well dressed and polite people come up our street, knocking on our doors, offering Salvation. I have told these lovely people no thanks, without having to leave the comfort of my own personal pig-sty. Why on earth would I get all hot and bothered, break a sweat and possibly get involved in some dangerous cult, when I can avoid all this with a cup of tea at home?

The third is The Watermelon Man. He comes up our street in the summer time and parks. Then he starts his call. "Waaaatermelon, freshhhhhhh waaaaaatermelon". It took a while for me to understand what was happening. OK, I'm a little slow. But I like this bullhorning. Why? Because all I have to do is wander down the block to his truck with a couple of bucks, pick up the fruit and bring it home. Then it's sit 'n' spit pips time.