I don’t know her name, the neighbour with the toddler. But she has bright coloured hair, and her small child wears a purple jacket. She often sits on the wall, in front of my place, sitting there below my window, in her pink dressing gown, during the day, just watching the world go by. Sometimes smoking, sometimes not, but always sitting, just sitting there in her pink dressing gown.

The taxi gingerly three-point turns its way out of Fearon Place, past the old white Nehemiah church, which soon will be luxury flats, driving out onto Regent Street, upwards onto the High Street. As I look down below at the empty wall beneath the window, a voice from the television speaks of Brexit and absent deals and something about how an old white man with a blood-orange face advised an old, spindly, grey-haired white woman to sue the European Union.

5/7