A. gets a graphic design job and moves up to town, to a bedsit at the very top of a large Victorian house in Chiswick. I arrive and stay. I can’t risk asking: I just do. It’s expressly a single bedsit: the landlady lives downstairs with her children. I have to sneak in and out and up and down the stairs very quietly and if apprehended I am visiting or popping in to drop something off. I leave my bike chained up to a fence nearby until a note appears on it: ‘This is not a bicycle park’.