Creaks, slurps and thumps and why sounds can be inspiring - Ian McMillan

The bang as the door takes on a life of its own and wrestles itself from my grip. My shout of “just the door” to my wife downstairs so that she doesn’t think I’ve collapsed under the weight of my own genius. The slow sound of the tottering pile of books falling in on itself like a tree falling in autumn. The scrapy sound of the gathering of the books.

The creak of the chair as I sit on it; no matter how carefully I sit on the chair, it creaks as though it is saying: “You can’t fool me.” The creak is oddly aggressive, oddly sinister. One day, I guess, the chair will break. But not today, chair, please. Not today. I’ve got a column to write.

The slurping sound of me glugging tea. The glugging sound of me slurping tea. Face it, McMillan: you don’t need tea, you’re just putting off the inevitable writing of the column. Open the laptop and listen for the satisfying hum. I stare at the screen and scratch my chin in imitation of somebody thinking. The scratching sound is amplified by my rubble stubble and I make a mental note to get some new razor blades.

There’s a knock at the door. I go downstairs; the stairs creak. The door clicks as I open it. The postman hands me a parcel; more books. More books that, although I’m tempted, I mustn’t start to read because I need to get the column written. I thump them down on the worktop and I can tell by the satisfying noise they make that they will be good reads.

I go back upstairs. The stairs creak. I stare at the laptop screen, scratching my chin again. I finish the tea and I smack my lips loudly. I go downstairs again. The stairs creak again. I click the kettle on and the hissing begins. Geese fly over the house with a noise like a convention of sonorous pub signs in a stiff breeze.

A car speeds up the street. Another car door slams. The kettle boils. That wonderful sound of the water going into the cup where the teabag waits. A kind of almost sacred splash. An almost holy splosh.

Time to go back upstairs. Creak, creak of the stairs and my brain, trying to think of ideas. A helicopter approaches like an idea might fly into my mind from far away.

The helicopter appears to be circling our house like ideas might circle a page in a notebook. I stare at the laptop and its hum is drowned out by the helicopter’s song. The helicopter speeds away and a dog barks.

All these sounds. I was going to write “all this noise” but it’s not noise, it’s sound. There’s the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard and the first sentences landing on the screen. My fingers sound like castanets.

I must be of sound mind because my mind is full of sounds. Now there’s a line to end the column with!