I am in a shared house. I live with a band called Bellowhead. My room is full of instruments, mine and theirs, I play a saxophone operated by dials, not keys, a brass section from one instrument.
It used to be a communal space, and people still want to congregate here, I’m tired, but can’t get them to leave. It’s late, and I have work in the morning.
There’s a small door by my bed, it leads to caverns underneath the neighbouring house. I wonder if they can get in that way? I wander about the house. It’s huge, and in the conservatory, tiny figures woven from grass reenact battles from the past in dioramas.
Outside, in a muddy park, a funfair sets up, local shops are full of the same generic fancy dress, I’m not sure where my new home, the Ten Steps House is.
It feels like home.