You are standing on a quiet street, in the outskirts of a small and wealthy town, in the commuter belt of London. The street is a residential crescent, lined on both sides by large and well-spaced houses. Rows of cherry trees have been planted along the pavements. A young man is stepping in and out of their shadows as he makes his way towards you. You greet him politely, realising as you do so that his hair is greying and he is older than you thought. He walks straight past you, ignoring your salutation, and continues on his way. As you turn to look in anger at his back, you notice that his hair is white and he is walking with a stick.
For a moment, you forget why you have come here. Then you remember that — a few days ago — someone invited you to a house on this street. You take a bus ticket out of your wallet and read an address written on the back of it; then you cross the road and start walking up it, squinting at the numbers that appear in different places on every building. Eventually, you stop at the front door of number fifteen.
© Alex Graves 2003