Plain white walls, broken only by three coloured squares on one side. A big red bed lies lazily in the middle of that wall and waits. Behind the mirrored slidey doors stands the shelves: once full of colour and clothes. Now they wait, redundant. A box sits in the corner full of childhood memorabelia – nothing more recent.
A child sits, suspended in the air, in time. The parent waits, smiling up at them – ready to push. Three boys climb, another hangs and one more slides. Another group of boys – slightly older – all look in the same direction, caged off from the rest. A little girl with her mum are turning to leave this snapshot of outside life.
Turn left, you enter a culdesac of secrets. Turn right you walk straight past the children. The cars come down this direction, off the main road towards the homes of the familiar faces with unfamiliar stories. Like the old man walking past just now – I feel I know him, yet which is his house? His home, his family, his story – I know not.