Mr. and Mrs. de Prette

Dear reader,
        At that moment of my deepest trepidation about taking my next steps into No.10 the furthest door on the right opened and a veritable mountain of a woman came rushing out. Her hair was wiry and bleach blonde, it stood up like a cloud of bright steam above her head. Her lipstick was frighteningly red. She was followed closely by a man stooping to fit through the doorway. His grey pinstripe trousers were far too short and his socks did not match in a most displeasing way. His tuft of small caramel hair looked as if it had never behaved a day in its obviously hard life. They bowled towards me and made it obvious they were the owners of the coats that hung on the wall. They stopped rather abruptly in front of me. They expressed their pleasure at meeting a new tenant, although i could hear what I thought was a hint of weariness, which, I should add, I never shared when I met new tenants since my arrival here. It was clear they were in a hurry to go somewhere, or do something, so I let them collect their coats and leave, but not before I asked them as to the location of my Venice room. Their answer left me quite puzzled at the time. They told me that when there was a third floor the room liked to be there, but on that day they thought it best to send me in the direction of the garden, through green door on the other side and try to find it on that corridor. I thanked them and they left in a fluster of pushing and rustling coats. I gathered my possessions and set off towards the garden door. As always, expect the unexpected.

Forever yours,
   
Rupert Fairchild.

Which way to go?

Dear reader,
        I would like to be able to tell you that the first time I stood outside No. 10 Hunter square was a revolutionary moment in my life. It wasn't. To tell you the truth I was in many ways disappointed. The door, like many doors, was tall and made of wood. The knocker stood at eye height and was in the shape of a lions head, a large black number ten stood at the top of the door. It was ordinary. I reached up to knock on the door and it swung open. I wasn't surprised, I had been told to expect the unexpected, a concept I have struggled with for many reasons I won't go into now.
    The hallway of No. 10 looked ordinary enough the first time I saw it. The floor, tiled with a black and white diamond, the walls a deep, welcoming red patterned wallpaper. Against the left wall stood a polished dark-wood cabinet. Upon the surface lay two envelopes, the contents of which I have already described. I read the letter and poured the keys out into my hand. I put the large key into my trouser pocket and kept the smaller key in my hand. Behind the door stood a row of hooks upon which were hung three coats. A large white fur, a blue men's overcoat and a child's grey puffer jacket. Turning away from the door it dawned on me that I had no idea where my room was. In front of me was a set of stairs against the left wall leading up to the first floor. A corridor ran along side. The corridor lead to a door which, by the view that could be seen through the glass panes set halfway up the frame, led to the garden. Along the corridor on the right hand side were two doors, presumably leading to flats. I re-checked the letter from Mr. Hunter. I was in the Venice room.

Forever yours,
   
Rupert Fairchild.

Foreward

Dear reader,

        I would not be so morbid as to assume that if you are reading this diary then I am no longer living. Staying here for as long as I have has made me realise the futility of guessing what is around the next corner. And books, it seems, have a life all of their own. Left on dusty shelves in some forgotten library, passed from father to son, mother to daughter. Such is the silent life of books. To guess how it came into your possession would be as impossible and as inconsequential as to trace a grain of rice back to the paddy field from which it originated. So if you are reading this whilst it is no longer in my possession, please do not come looking for me. I will leave this diary behind if, and only if, I feel I have learnt all there is to learn from my life here. After that moment I will not wish anything to do with it.
    I fear that if I do not write everything down now my memory may fail me before I have the chance to pass it on or indeed a willing ear to listen. Now as to why I think that my life here is of note I hope will become apparent as you read on.
    The whys and wherefores of my arrival at  Hunter Square are both boring and unimportant. Suffice to say that I was lost. Thanks in many ways to my stay at Hunter Square this is no longer the case. This being said I shall begin my account from the moment before I stepped through the great oak doors of No. 10.

Forever yours,

Rupert Fairchild.

Welcome to No. 10

Dear Rupert,

              Welcome to No. 10 Hunter Square. You are here because Hunter Square needs you as much as you need her. I am sure the other residents will make your move here as delightful as possible. I must ask you to respect the other tenants privacy but you will soon find that here at Hunter Square we are great believers in the idiom "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.". You are of course free to explore the entire building and I am sure you will discover some of her secrets that even I am not aware of. You will be staying in the Venice room, your bags have already been brought up. You will find your keys in the envelope attached to this letter, the large key is for the front and garden doors and the smaller is for your room.

Should you need me I am always around when needed.

I hope you enjoy your stay with us.

Yours faithfully,

Mr Hunter