Me and the eldest got up early enough this morning to catch the sunrise. She told me to take a photograph of it from where I was sat so I snapped the rosy hues seeping between the wonky slats of the blinds that ended up that way when a burglar flopped through the open window ten years ago to grab a laptop and a phone before being sent in terror back the way he came by the sight of me, stark bollock naked and wondering what all the noise was about. The noseless Buddha, the one I found abandoned in a bush in the South Acton Estate when I was gardening there, looked on with the same passivity he reserves for all things, be it my material possessions or my mortal shell that was probably marginally less of a nightmare to gaze upon than it is now. For the next few weeks after the incident I would burst into the living room swinging a hammer or a spade every time the fridge or the plumbing made a noise. A building isn’t a static object, it creaks and groans with its heft and pressure points. Nothing is ever itself for too long and nothing in this world is truly ours.