From my sofa I can see the gardens of the flats below. Opposite my building is the back office of the local Postbank. Every night, without fail, they leave the light on. It is bright and there are no blinds to dim the glare. Instead, I can see straight into the room, with its sorting bags and piles of stationery.
I have a habit of glancing in to see what is going on. Nothing ever is. But I know that one day I shall see some activity that shouldn’t be happening, perhaps a break-in or a robbery. I shall call the police, who will catch the offenders red-handed. I shall be celebrated and my photo will be in the local paper.
Or perhaps I’ll just catch a glimpse of an illicit office affair. A sweaty balding pudding of a man will be backing a gawky middle-aged vrouw up against the glass, rifling through her blouse for her boobies. It will be a rushed crush of a moment and then they’ll part, she smoothing her hair, he straightening his tie and recomposing his glasses. I won’t report this activity to the police of course, but I’ll know what I saw. Next time I go into the Postbank for stamps, I’ll be served by the man. I’ll give him a sly knowing look and subtly nod my head in the woman’s direction. It will be so slight a move on my part that he won’t be sure if I’ve made it or not. But he’ll wonder about it and be wary of what I might know.
After that he avoids me if he can, or at least avoids my gaze if he has to serve me. I won’t go in often as I have no wish to make him feel unduly uncomfortable. But sometimes, if I’ve had a bad day and am feeling pensive, I’ll wander round to the Postbank and give the man a scare. I’ll find that it always sets me up right for the day, no matter how I’ve been feeling before.