What else is the night time for? S asks, and she is right. A silence and the muffled lights at 2am of not many not sleeping, dry contact lenses and the running of a tap through the walls, and we never meet, this diagonal neighbour of mine and I. The Spanish woman downstairs, who found me last week in the kitchen with mulchy grass stuck to my toes, in a falling down dress staring into the clogged drain of the sink after they pursuaded me to go home, makes nutella sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch at around this time, with brown bread from the freezer. It defrosts overnight, diluting chocolate spread. It is almost definitely the right time for writing about King Lear and his smallness, in the storm. Day time is too bright, with the world walking by in flower-print dresses and sunglasses, for such tragedy.