I lock myself out and hear voices in the stairwell, my own replicated down the line. Standing where I am and looking down into an angular spiral of cold brick corners there is nobody but the flitting shadow of the professor who lives one floor down with his suspiciously slim briefcase and grim post-box mouth. I say he looks like Wiesler from The Lives of Others, and A says maybe he has your room wired up.
Talking of margins, after scrubbing my sink I will mark mine out for you in black marker pen.
I would like to go home now and unsuspend people from their lemon jelly prisons.
