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.
