Picos Gemeos

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Camberwell on Sunday 2nd of February, 2025. Clothes and sheets hung out to dry from balconies on the tower block across the way, and from time to time an Overground train sped by.

Messalina sat on our balcony’s ledge, light shining on her soft coat, meowing threats at pigeons that deigned to fly too close. The shadow of a large, bare tree played against one of the tower block’s sides. I took the tree's picture and searched Google using its “lens” feature, to see if it could identify its type. All Google could find were examples of the brand-new condos erected behind the tree.

I have two works in progress – horror novels – and if I were a sensible writer, I’d have worked on them on that beautiful Sunday, or put my mind to writing a new short story or drafting my latest Substack newsletter.

Instead, I chose to do a deep clean of the bedroom. First, I took everything underneath and around the bed out of the room and lined them up in the corridor. Then I wiped surfaces, swept dust balls, vacuumed corners and finally mopped the whole floor.

Once finished, I opened windows across the flat and lay on the bare mattress, my knees pressed to my chest, my lower back stretched loose.