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.
