When we came home from Edinburgh last night, we found our across-the-hall neighbours in the process of moving out. Their cheese plant was touching our doormat.

Today is their last day and I can hear them feverishly hoovering as I write this. They explained last night that the flat is expensive and that they’re moving back in with his parents to save money. He says “moving back in” (without the “my parents” part) as if it’s a common phrase. Troublingly, I sense that it really is.

Our own landlord increased our rent this month and I wonder if the whole street hasn’t suffered a coordinated hike. The lesbian couple with a penchant for post-it notes across the street moved out yesterday too. I hope none of this has anything to do with my tendency to stand at the window with no shirt on, flexing my muscles and eating fruit.

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