Can we imagine what it might feel like after Church Street? After The Arcade Fire? After the door that drags on the floor boards? After mornings with sun directly on our face? After the smell of the rain on the bitumen and new summer bats fighting to be heard over Foreign Correspondent. After a kitchen often full with guests and the to and fro of getting to the fridge, getting to the bin?

I hear the taxi driver story second hand in the evening, first hand at noon.

I go to Costume for Mary Jane's one size too large after the Westpac man stands on my foot in the foyer meaning my toes won't make it to the evening in the too-tight shoes.

Someone is locking the gates to the cemetry and I'm watching out the window. There's a girl barefoot on the footpath directly below saying: can you wait?

I'm creating genius playlists, suprised that I can remember my top five songs from the moment in the window at the Judgement Bar, impressed enough to save them.

And a pile of books is leaning towards the floor, Lady Chatterley's Lover on top, bringing to mind the beach in Thailand on which I read it.

Actually I am a beef stir-fry followed by a florentine.