Every morning, when I take my tea back to bed and begin to read, I see, in the window of the house opposite, the head of a woman moving to and fro above the closed half-shutters. It seems to float, and I wonder since I can see it, what it can see of me.
On the roof of one of the houses in Sevenoaks High Street, I see a cluster of pigeons; they look convivial as though enjoying each other's company. Is the roof so popular because it is poorly insulated and the pigeons are enjoying the warmth from within? The other roofs have no pigeons.
In a narrow street, I walk past an office with low windows, which give onto the roadway. In the first set of windows I see a room, where people at separate desks are engaged with computer screens. In the next window, a girl is sitting at a table studying what look like colour proofs. Behind her, busying himself with a notice board, is a bearded man. I do not linger. I have seen enough, caught a glimpse of other people's lives, and sensed the complex threads of soap opera, which are surely to be found in every office and place of work.