The view from my studio …. now can I see yours?
The view from my upstairs studio is no great shakes. Facing southeast,I do get a chance to imagine the sunrise although there is often no real concrete evidence of this. Until she does burn of the cloud then I have to pull the blinds completely until her spiteful rays no longer interfere with my work.
If my view were a cinema screen then the sky holds the top righthand corner and a little further right a distance roof and the sound of crows and magpies. These are the only evidence of wildlife; bar a mangy cat that sleeps a while on a flat roofed garage at centre stage. On the left is a terrace row of tiny Victorian houses and their grey tiled roofs some with a plastic newness; a mirror image of those on my side.
I often wonder in times of distraction, (why else would I look out on such a god forsaken place) if those opposite are slightly wider and grander; but short of counting bricks and I have tried that in desperate times or going over with tape measure then the jury remains out.
Neither side of the road has a front garden just a narrow stripe that serves no purpose and requires a cosmetic wall and gate; most have fallen in bad repair or removed for the income of modernity indoors and not replaced. In some cases there are chequed tiles, a ‘path’ leading to door that has long since been Victorian.
So at my eye level, I see a TV aerials and the new round alternative and a giant cobweb of trailing cables that seem to come from nowhere and go somewhere else that doesn’t bear logic.
My attention is drawn down and now squinting through the now opened blinds and more interesting than the job in hand, is the debate between new doors and windows having experienced the new placements in the 1970s and those more recent. Why should I not be an expert?
I can see Nos. 2, 4 and 6 and leaning out a little I can see the cleaner come and go at no. 8; does it really take that long to clean throughout? She takes longer to light her ciggy, touch up her lippy and check her mobile. I see quite clearly the comings and goings; the bumps and scrapes of the cars as they maneuver from precious parking spaces.
Then there are the wheelie bins, finding no space in the front garden, not the luxury of a side entrance, are left on the road side each decorated with number and rendered unique almost as creatively as the aforementioned draped communication cables.
Not a pretty sight, but it is home and it serves a pleasant backdrop when life on the other side is less comfortable.