For the past decade I have suffered from noisy neighbours in the flat below mine. First it was the stream of student tenants, thundering up and down the communal staircase day and night, banging doors, shouting to each other, playing their guitars. Then at last the flat was bought by a middle-aged owner-occupier, who completely gutted and refurbished the place; the deafening noise and pervasive dust from the months-long building works was almost unbearable. Now that his works are over, I have to put up with the day-to-day clatter and clamour of a neighbour with a lot of Gen Z house guests and a penetrating voice.

Noisy neighbours are a plague for those who work at home. Naturally, I find it most maddening when I am in the middle of writing a book or article. (I am no stranger to the earplug, having tried many kinds, but why should I have to stuff my ears with bits of silicone, foam or wax in order to hear myself think?) My only comfort comes from the knowledge that many writers, far more illustrious than I, have suffered from exactly the same thing.

Marcel Proust’s collected Letters to the Lady Upstairs chronicle his despair with the noise emanating from the apartment above his........

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