Feeling homicidal - rant alert

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I think I'm about to erupt into a volcanic rage. Anytime soon, I shall be a one-woman pyroclastic flow, spewing words of molten lava at the next silly anus who rings my doorbell, under the misapprehension that I am holding a student house-party. Numerous little troupes of facially-pierced Fraggles have clambered up my front steps, squawking, giggling and clutching supermarket bags full of booze.

Fraggles

The first time the bell went, I stood on my windowsill, cracked the window open, and peered down at the front path. Lots of hands (the ones that weren't clutching bags of booze) shot in the air, waving frantically, amongst a volley of shrill greetings - "hi", "coo-ee", "Merry Chrimbo", etc. So I stared down at them, face like thunder and said "yeah?". "Oh", said someone. "Is this where the party is?" "No", I said. "Oh. Merry Christmas. Byeeee", they said, trooping off again. Er, hello? How about "sorry for disturbing you"?

That was just the first bunch. The next lot arrived singing Christmas songs. I suspect the OAP downstairs told them to eff off, as they rang her bell, too. I ignored them. And the next lot, and the two - or was it three - lots after that. The last lot to arrive just kept on ringing the bell, sending my poor cats, who are petrified of the doorbell, into a total frenzy. Up I went onto the windowsill again - no easy feat when you have an arthritic spine and neck, and the co-ordination skills of a drunken, one-legged horse. "What?" I said. Lots of little hands waved in the air again. "We're here for the party", blurted a girl - at least, I think it was a girl - with greenish-blue hair that seemed infested with penicillin mould. I think that effect was courtesy of the feeble porch light. Then again, maybe not.

"You've got the wrong house", I snarled through gritted teeth. "No we haven't", she said. "I have it here, on my phone, number XX, XXXXXX Terrace", she said, squinting at the screen of her phone. "Well there's your problem, then", I growled. "This may be number XX, but it's YYYYYY Terrace". "Are you sure?" she asked. "Seeing as I've lived here for nearly 10 years, I think I know the name of my street by now, love. Now kindly eff off". God! I thought students were meant to be intelligent.

I have no idea where this party is happening. I can't hear it anywhere. But if I get any more Fraggles buzzing my bell, not only will I become a human Vesuvius, but I shall also be obliged to stick a notice on the front door, advising the aforementioned Fraggles where the party is. Either that, or I'll end up incinerating them with my lava-dripping tongue. Give me strength!