I lived in flats many times. I like it. I like being part of a community that I don’t necessarily have to become intimate with but I enjoy watching its comings and goings. I give names to these strangers, I make up narratives about their lives. At this time of the year I see lights shining in their windows. There are Christmas trees, garlands and wreaths on doors. I live vicariously through their home-making. One such is the family across the bridge from me. I can see into their first floor window. The room has a proliferation of decorations. Tinsel hangs from the walls, there’s a tree and the child’s (aka Moaning Mathilda) cut-out snowflake shapes have been stuck to the window. It is sweet. I like the care and the wish to celecrate with light and innocence. Last evening I caught a glimpse of the mother. She had a pair of reindeed antlers on her head. They were lit up with fairy lights. Perhaps she was wearing them to please the child. Or maybe, just maybe to excite her partner. Who knows. For all it’s naffness, I like it. I really do. (And I never got that crescent snow scene that I so hankered after).
