11.30 am
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Ed shuffles through his post. Dropping the unwanted envelopes down his cluttered kitchen table. Letters from HMRC, from Thames Water asking for money, old junk from a furniture shop boating about a sale. He tucks menu for Chinese into a drawer for later - it has little vouchers inside for free spring rolls.
From behind it, a carefully folded piece of cream coloured paper falls delicately to the floor. He stoops to collect it, robe falling open. The paper is stiff and heavy, posh stuff that he imagined the Queen would use to invite people to Buckingham palace. He glanced across the swooping handwriting, finely completed in a fountain pen.
Hello Neighbour,
I live across the road. Second floor window. It seems we keep similar hours! Would you like to pop around for tea sometime?
