The door closes only with a firm shoulder, creaking over the jamb and ruffling the carpet to isolate a small l-shaped room. More furniture than space; bed, desk, wardrobe and table loom over narrow red-carpeted valleys.
The wardrobe is like a mountain, a blank-faced massif of wooden veneer topped with teetering crags of papers and files, foolscap spilling like snow and threatening to avalanche the duvet far below.
The bedside table's dark wood is bleached with a chorus of halos from overnight drinking glasses. A skewed pile of books sits within easy reach of the bed, train tickets jutting as ersatz bookmarks. Above the bed posters detail improbable mountain-bike stunts and sweat-sheened cyclists powering to victory.
At the desk and shelves, where the light spills glare over diary, homework and scraps of paper, the music system is surrounded by an ever-expanding kaleidoscope of CD cases and book spines.
At night, car headlights slide across the ceiling, left-to-right at 6:00 as commuters return to the village, and right-to-left at 11:15 when the pub kicks out.
In autumn, the gales rush and push through the trees outside and crash on the window-pane. In summer the window stays open through the night and leaves hush me gently to sleep.
200-ish words about somewhere indoors remembered from childhood.
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