It’s about 7:30pm I’m walking down the stairs from my flat. I have been talking to my landlord. When I arrived, he was vacuuming those stairs, ready for a new couple who he says want to look at the place next door to mine in the block. We chatted, I picked up the things I needed from my place, and he disappeared into the ready-to-view apartment.
As I am closing the entrance to the block behind me, I bump into the people who have come to look at the flat. I say hello to them and tell them that I’m the guy who’d be living next door to them if they take the place. They aren’t looking at me; they’re looking at the un-cased electric guitar I’m carrying.
“Oh. It’s okay; I only practise with headphones.”
“He’s, er, a great landlord.”