October 31st 2019.
Claya R. is at the foot of the ladder. I am some rungs up, but not too many. There’s a long way to go yet before I reach the window. The window is ajar. “If you just get in and then open the front door, let me in,” she says.
November 1st 2019.
Pippa S. is being uncharacteristically mean. She is in cahoots with Jack (from Rainbow flats). “Didn’t realise you knew each other,” I say. Together they stand, by the tumble driers in the launderette. They are poking me with sticks, attached to which are pennants. I try to laugh it off. “Who do you two think you are? Knights of Templar?”
November 4th 2019.
A letter is on the doormat. It is from Alaster G. How it got here, I don’t know. It has only my name on it and no address. The postmark reads Bath Spa, but there are only hand drawn stamps applied. Sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. I open it. It is a very messy epistle: the writing is dreadful. It is crayon. Typically, Alaster has enclosed glitter and petals. These now are scattered on the carpet. The main news seems to be that Marc Bolan has died in a car crash. Confused, I check the postmark again. The date reads 1977. I have to laugh at how dreadful the postal service has become!