Goodness, the pitfalls of modern life. I work at the back of our house, overlooking the rear of another terrace, next street along. Naturally, as a writer, I spend much of my time looking vacantly out of the window. It is a typical London view: a few branches, the occasional jay, a variety of Victorian sash windows and balconies.
One of the flats has been bought by some Italian girls, whose joyous exclamations as they moved in gave me the happy feeling of being in Rome. What is it, however, about the Italians and curtains? If they don’t have any, they’ve certainly got shutters. Yet they just don’t close them.
A couple of windows along is a family who rarely make use of their blind. My eye drifts from the computer screen, and there is an Italian, just out of bed-or out of the bath. Or somebody disrobing in the other window.
The branch has no leaves and it gets dark early. I am compelled to lower my own blind, lest I’m mistaken for a voyeur. And yet, why should I? Is it reasonable that I should be put to the trouble, solely because other people display themselves in the nude? When in England, do as the English. Be reserved. Hang onto your inhibitions, I’m trying to concentrate.
