Night comes crawling in over the canal when you arrive home. The ugly block looms against the darkening sky like a rotting tooth. Past the graffiti-covered corridors and letterboxes, the stench of urine accompanies you up to the stingy flat you can just afford as a supermarket-till-slave.
You look out of your window at the newly born luxury apartments on the other side of the canal. There, they live among their Lichtensteins, wear Gucci or Chanel, eat from Paloma
Picasso plates and drink their cuvee from Riedl glasses.
Like that glamorous woman you've been watching for some evenings. She greats her manager husband with a smile when he comes home. He will give her a kiss, lift her up from
her seat by the piano or wherever she's been sitting all day and carry her over to what must be the bedroom. Then, invariably, they close the