by Lindsay Brown
My bedroom is dominated by a huge bed. Its white bed linen stands out against the dark red wallpaper and matching carpet. A glass chandelier, covered in dust, hangs above the bed, casting tiny fragments of rainbow around the room on sunny days. It often smells like singed hair because I need a new hairdryer. A red Perspex bedside table holds a lamp, some jewellery, Japanese coins from a holiday 3 years ago and a photo. The window is dirty because it has been raining.
Out of my dirty window I can see the car park, covered in grit that arrived too late to help with the snow. I don’t know my neighbours, so can’t speak to who the cars belong to. None of them are mine. Beyond the car park is a children’s play park with a yellow climbing frame and tarnished slide. The grass around the play park needs cut. There are never any children there, even during school holidays.
My street is quiet, bordering the housing scheme I live on. The only noise comes from the number 30 bus rolling by. There is a mattress outside number 42, that may well be set on fire when it dries out enough. The metal stair doors are fire-engine red which, depending on your taste, clash or complement the orange pebble dashing of the buildings, brown window frames and terracotta crazy paving.