A wardrobe’s worth of embarassingly expensive clothing lies strewn on the coarse, colourless carpet. The large, rectangular Ikea mirror reflects my denim legs and the shadows they make on the sky blue, wood-chipped wall. Hats and luggage dangle from the shelf like a shop display. The only thing intact is the book shelf. “Dead Children Playing” stands solitary on the top, while books, old copies of iD and Pop, and the most important cds I could fit in my suitcase adorn the shelves. Posters and photos are rolled up or in boxes in my squat. Artificial light gives everything the sense of a stage production. This is a room for any illegal occupants of 1F1.
Neon lights shine over from Blockbuster Video. Michael McIntyre’s “Hello Wembley” is deal of the week. Cars and buses dance throught the crossroad like mice with headlights. The cyclist space at the traffic lights is empty. Does anybody cycle anymore? The vacant bay windows accross the street reflect our lampshade like a single candle lit in a cave. Like an enormous mirror I can see Laura and Emma wrestling in the living room accross the street, as well as in our own.
A hobo casually strolls through a red light while an office worker runs for her life. A teddy boy stops to light his cigarette, his white socks on show above his boots. A group of teenagers argue outside Papa Johns, and a frail old woman tries to hury past the fray. Her brittle bones only speed her up a fraction. A half empty number 14 stalls at the lights, there is a nose picker on the way to Muirhouse.