My window loves me.

Today I removed the green mossy stuff which recently started sprouting down the side of my fire-escape window (the one under which I lie every night, wondering why the clouds and the tree look so blurry. Now I know.) I sprayed stale window-cleaner and wiped with an old school shirt. Spray, wipe, spray, wipe. I polished off the dried-up raindrops. And there were many. My window lets in light now, as all windows should, but as mine didn't, not really. The clouds and the tree are no longer blurry.

I almost killed myself in the process. The neighbours, varnishing their wooden Homebase garden table, looked up at me several times. They looked mildly intruiged at first, and then concerned as my cold feet in my woollen socks stepped onto the wooden box underneath my window. They were not far from panicked gesticulation as I hauled myself into standing position, body trapped awkwardly between roof tiles and heavy glass. Looking down at the garden slabs three floors below. I waved at them. Every time I see them I make a mental note never to become them. Old and childless, surrounded by wooden Homebase garden furniture, spending days and days polishing and brick-laying and fence-building to stave off the ennui. Every time I see them, I think to myself that there is more to life than wooden Homebase garden furniture, and I tell myself again never to shop at Homebase. Ever.

And my window loves me.