Two years ago, my most lovingly overbearing and melodramatic auntie came to stay at my flat on an east London high road. Each morning she would emerge, fully dressed except for the eye mask left on her forehead like Chekhov’s gun, taking a few moments to chitchat before erupting: “Aren’t you going to ask how I slept? Just terrible! Sirens! Buses all night, driving sinners around. This noise will kill me. You’ll be sorry when I’m dead!”
Her exclamations may sound over the top. But it turns out that not even the most hyperbolic of relatives could overstate the dangers of this threat, which has lurked unrecognised for too long. Noise in our towns and cities is killing us – and the evidence is piling up.
