After a satisfying morning mopping, scrubbing and sponging the communal areas of my block with the middle name from February 6th, I go out onto my balcony with a mug of cold Ribena. The sun is shining and on the adjacent balcony some other neighbours have had the same idea. One, with short curly hair, owns the flat next door with her husband and the other, an Asian girl with long dark hair and a relaxed demeanour, is their flatmate. Leaning over our railings we talk about the building, the area and the coming of Summer. The owner tells me that she and her husband are moving to St Albans to have a baby. She pats her swelling stomach under a tight T-shirt. The flatmate is moving to another flat in the building. She points at the balcony below and to the left. I feel as though I am in a Mike Leigh version of Melrose Place.
The flatmate doesn't have a middle name and the owner apologises that hers is so boring. 'It's my Mum's name', she says, 'and my husband's middle name is after his Dad'. I ask if she thinks this is the reason they got married. She pauses for reflection. 'Maybe', she decides.
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