I like living here. I like to hear and be amongst the other flat dwellers with the walls dividing us, that is. But I do struggle with the smells. It was ever thus. I remember in Cambridge the stink of curry coming through our fixed wine rack. Here it oozes through the walls and floors of both bathrooms and then up the stairwell. He can’t smell it mostly, though yesterday even he reeled at it. It was definitely meat. Though we discussed whether it was mince or beef stew. It was there for hours. It’s his brothers. At least one of them. The man downstairs, that is. He isn’t well, though they are keeping mum about what is ailing him. They appear to be taking it in turn to visit. One plays the saxophone. They all cook but pungent stuff, sadly. I must learn to be more accepting, though even a double dose of lavender oil in two burners couldn’t eradicate it.
And then there is the noise. I’ve grown used to their TV being on very loud. It’s even comforting at times. Last night we heard the fair. It must be over a mile away but the thumping beat of the music carries. I like it actually. It evokes so many dreams of childhood. I was always a bit scared of it, he said last night. He remembers it as a boy. I was scared of them too, but that added to their attraction – the dirt, the stickiness, the hard-faced men, the lights, and the muddied turf under foot.
I walked without a stick today. I’m slower but at least I can still walk. Four girls huddled in a group opposite the sail on the Prom. I caught some of their conversation as I walked past. She says that men help, one was saying. Yeh, replied another, but druggies always say that. And she repeated herself for extra effect. Druggies always say that.
