Here comes the sun

And it's really a good thing. I mean, now that my legs are back to a presentable state - dazzlingly white, but presentable -, it's a really good thing. You know, it's been said before, and much, much better than here, but basically, winter is fun for about a week, and then it gets real old real quick. So after the previous 730 straight days of cold-grey-and-drizzle, it's really good to see and feel the sun again.
Except.
Oh come on, of course there was going to be an 'except'. What did you think, that this had turned into The Sound of Music overnight? The sun is out, so all of a sudden I'm supposed to be all giddy? Perish the thought, my dears. Perish the thought.
Except when the sun is out and the temperature rises above the 20° (again, C., not F.) barrier, the thing that really comes to mind is to open the windows.
And the problem is that, wish as I might that I were exceptional and unique, I ain't really. No no, no use pretending, I know I ain't. And so everybody else around here thinks of the same thing. They all open their windows.
So here's the crux of the matter then. There is a not-so-cristalline sound that pierces my ears every now and again. A frequent every now and again, I might add. Often. Sometimes on a more or less constant basis.
One of my neighbours likes the sound of her own laughter. But see, I don't. And I'm in a bit of a puddle about that.
Puddle? Poodle? I so wish I could say poodle and get away with it. Anyway. Now is not the time nor the place to debate the merits of small curly dogs as metaphorical problem areas.
The puddle, then, is this. After around fifteen minutes of this "up and dow the scales I go", I'm torn between yelling a heartfelt "Shut up!" outside of my own open windows - and considering the impressive acoustic qualities of four buildings closely snuggled together around a yard, there is a very good chance that these two words will reverberate their way around and zoom across through her own windows, into her ear duct, and slam themselves right through her eardrum and into her brain, where they might be tattooed there for eternity and all I care - let me catch my breath. Aaaand ("between yelling"... and. Yes? You all with me?) running down the stairs like a maniac, slamming all doors open and shut very violently so that people know not to interfere, running up the stairs to the courtyard like 'something has survived', letting the sound guide me to the culprit's flat and, well, I don't know, kill her? That would certainly shut her up. The hitch with that option is that considering her laughter, the shrieks would probably lead me to suicide. What a waste of energy that would then have been.