It’s the smallest bedroom in the house, and seems even smaller because every spare inch outside the central floor space has been filled, over the years, with what, collectively, can only be described as stuff: mostly books and various electronics. A computer desk dominates one side of the room; opposite, a stack of crates signifies an ongoing attempt to tidy up. A fallen shelf is propped against these, and six small holes in the wall by the bed show where this used to live.
Moving to the window, it is hard not to look straight into the upper windows of the identical house across the street. Beyond this is a jumble of rooftops slanting at every angle, and beyond these a pylon stands atop a wooded hill. At the peak of this pylon, a red light flashes every so often. Gulls can be seen making long distance flights across the sky. There is the sound of conversation from the street below. Three businessmen in suits walk past, talking and laughing.
The doorstep is newly tiled. Turning right, you find yourself walking along a winding street empty of cars. There is an archway that leads through a terrace of houses, and passing through it you can see some unimaginative graffiti on the wall. An old man calls to his dog who is nowhere to be seen, but the sound of digging can be heard from a nearby bush. Two kids on bikes zoom by and startle the old man, who mumbles to himself as the hiss of their tyres vanishes into the distance.