I've had plenty of noisy neighbours in my time and the worst were in this Edinburgh neighbourhood

I will inscouciantly sit there, popping Revels into my mouth, while blood squirts from punctured arteries and the ungrateful undead rush around like headless chooks.

However, a recent film really gave me so many goosebumps that I neglected my chocolate. It’s called Restless, and isn’t really a horror, but more of a dark thriller from first time director, Jed Hart.

Anyway, it’s based on a real angst-provoking subject, which is much scarier than phantoms and supernatural humbug. That is - help ma actual boab - nightmare neighbours.

Not just the ones that you hear the occasional violent sneeze from, or the versions that sound like they’re dropping a full box of marbles onto the floor every night at 10pm, but full on, partying- until-dawn-because-I’m-out-of-my-face and YOLO folk.

I’m talking about the anti-social sort that you’d never dare to pop by and ask for a cup of sugar, or a Gold Blend top-up. (Only those of a certain age will get that reference).

My hands were sweating and heart pumping, as I watched the main movie character - a relatable empty nester middle-aged resident of a two-up-two-down - while she thrashed around in bed every night, with headphones on to attempt to block out the sound. Her simple pleasures - baking, watching snooker, chilling with the cat - were trashed.

However, it was the sight of her digital clock, set to 4am-ish, that freaked me out. That’s the worst time to still be awake, when all hope of a solid block of shut-eye is gone.

The film, which is slightly silly in parts, also included those awful moments when someone has to go knock on a door in one’s pyjamas.

This should be a certified 18. It’s worse than the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Well, it was for me at least, as I was having flashbacks to my rackety neighbours of yore.

Ironically, I watched the film at the Fountainbridge branch of Cineworld, which is just across the road from where I endured the worst years.

It all happened in the first tenement flat I owned - a third floor one-bedroom that was situated over a kebab shop, so my bathroom always stunk of shawarma.

On the jolly day that I moved in there, all filled with hope, and clutching paint swatches and houseplants, the next door neighbour played Oasis’s (What’s the Story) Morning Glory album on rotation and at full volume, pretty much all day.

I realised that the walls may as well have been made of vellum. There was just a thin membrane separating our lives.

However, it was later on in my residency when the real noise kicked off. It wasn’t Him Next Door this time.

Basically, it turned out that another noisy neighbour liked to have full-on house music parties that went on all weekend, until 5am in the morning. Sometimes longer.

They played techno turned up to the ear-drum-perforating max, and, of course, it wouldn’t be a proper party without those blasting air-horns that sounded like raving Vikings trumpeting to herald in the start of Armageddon.

My now husband, then boyfriend, bravely went to knock on the door once, but nobody could hear him, so there was no answer. I think he was a bit nervous anyway, because it sounded like there were about 40 drunken people sardined into the property.

I did report them regularly, but nobody did anything about it.

Anyway, I don’t want to put a downer on Fountainbridge. That was a long time ago, and it’s a great and central place to live, for many reasons. There is a lot to love.

Mind you, I was walking along Dundee Street relatively recently and there was a DJ playing his decks, with his windows flung wide open, as if the whole street was his audience.

He waved to me, and I waved back. I could’ve flipped him the bird, but he’s not my neighbour, so I can be cool about it.

I’m not the only one who’s had these kinds of problems. I have a pal who could clearly hear the people upstairs and their, ahem, very performative and operatic intimate shenanigans, which went on almost every night for a week. In the end, she put on her metaphorical big girl pants - kudos, because I couldn’t do it - and bravely went up to diplomatically and politely outline the problem and ask if they could pipe down.

It turned out that the woman who answered was only one half of the resident couple. She had been away on holiday, solo, for the last few days and had just got back.

That was probably the end of that relationship.

Though I currently live in a quiet flat, I retain some hang-ups from those noisy years.

I started wearing earplugs at night back in the Fountainbridge days, and, even though I’m sure they’re probably not great for my hearing, or the environment, I have never stopped.

Even if we’re staying in a holiday home in the remotest of remote countryside, I’ll shove them in so far that it makes me cough and I can feel them touching my tiny brain.

Then I can drift off, in a sweet cocoon of silence. Thus, my tolerance for any night time noise is now almost zero.

So, if the zombie uprising does come, any time soon, I won’t be bothered.

As long as those naughty flesh eaters promise to keep it down.