Lately, there’s a been a palpable, creeping sense of transition around Dovecot Towers, with a scattering of random stuff, odd little details, and I’m not sure what any of it means. Maybe nothing, whatsoever; I’ve just noticed it, that’s all.
Today, I saw a smudge of blood, at face level, next to the lift. It’s one of those sights that once you notice it, the possibilities are endless: too much cocaine? A fight? An innocent nosebleed? I wonder if the originator lives here. My imagination has decided they were fleeing a beating, and made it to the building just in time. Some late night mid week screaming may have influenced my theoretical fears. I should have called the police; I usually do. It sounded like hi-jinks, but you can never really tell.
An Abel&Cole van, was delivering delicacies to a local gourmand. That’s a bit posh for round here: even people who use Tesco’s home delivery are considered to have airs and graces. I know we are close to the best shopping the city has to offer, but are tenants growing rich, or was a resident craving an organic veg box with posh cheese.
Someone pushed a flyer under my door, offering bass guitar lessons. I love the idea of an informal skills market: perhaps we should all print notes explaining who we are, and what we can offer. But, someone would offer premium heroin (none of your rubbish) and ruin the goodwill. I could offer professional sarcasm: details on application, reasonable rates.
There’s a pile of crisp packets by the stairs, held down using a small rock as a paper weight. How simultaneously neat, yet untidy.
In the corridor, close to the lift, someone left a full size wall unit, by which I mean a huge expensive looking lump of shelves designed for premises far grander than this. It couldn’t possibly fit into any of the flats, since they are so small. I wonder; did they measure the space first. Cleaning Man was irate: it needed many different Allen keys to disassemble. Did they ever fit it in the flat, or was it an unwanted gift? You’d think the donor would have asked.
On Sunday, the building was devoid of any party mess: no cans, or pizza boxes (and no vomit). Then in the lift I saw one thin rubber medical examination glove on the floor. I don’t know if somebody is being very sensible, or very strange.
A row of residents cars were parked on the street outside. I’d estimate that roughly seventy per cent were for sale: nearly new mini coopers, a jeep and a several standard run-arounds. Parking is a bastard and a bitch round here; town is close, and the wardens hunt fruitfully in packs.
The pub down the road has installed pine tables with candles, a cruet and one little flower; a coffee filter machine is visible. It serves home made soup, an all day breakfast (there’s even a children’s menu) but karaoke is no more. Customers are few in number, except for some defiant original punters who sit alone with a pint of cooking beer. I think they’ll move on soon.
This weekend, the entire building was festooned with balloons. When next day they were strewn around, all burst and forlorn, it seemed so poignant.