Couple of weeks ago the owner of this flat decided to have it valued. Does this means she wants to sell? I asked the real estate agent, who just shrugged and said Maybe. The speed with which they repaired a couple of things I pointed out in the damage report when I moved in six months ago, suggested more than maybe. She - the agent - called up a week or so later to say yes, the owner was selling and would I like to move out immediately? No, thanks, I said. I'll wait and see. A few days silence and then I get a knock on the Other Door, the one I never use. It's the guy from the rival real estate agent who was, coincidentally, the first person to show me a house when I decided to move into the area last year. Course he'd forgotten. Anyway, it turns out the other agency asked too much ($5000.00) for advertising so the owner gave the job to this guy's firm. He seemed surprised at how co-operative I was, as if expecting sullen resistance. My attitude is more (I hope) one of gracious resignation. Emboldened, he asked if he could go and get his camera, take a couple of shots? Sure, I said. I guess I imagined these pictures appearing in some brochure I would never see. I certainly didn't expect what in fact happened: last Friday morning a bloke in a truck came round and erected an enormous sign on the front lawn. The picture on this sign is a picture of my sitting room. Kind of blurry, like a blow-up of a frame from a video, but instantly recognisable, at least to me. There's the twin red velvet armchairs, the blue couch with the blue satin star cushion on it; there's William Watson's The Last of the Templars (a superb novel, by the way) open, face down, on the arm of one of the chairs, the large Allen Maddox drawing, the small oil of Lion Island Peter Baka painted ... and so on. When I saw this image for the first time I felt a sense of utter breach of privacy that lasted all of five seconds; then I laughed. Inside had become outside in a perhaps exemplary manner but, I realised, the violation of my interiority was apparent, not real. Still, it's oddly disconcerting when people stop, look and comment. I heard a kid the other day say: That's a nice house, Daddy! I also feel it's ironic that my way of inhabiting this place should become a selling point for someone who might well then evict me. On the other hand, it is quite as likely that the apartment will be bought as an investment by a rentier who will want me to stay on ... probably, however, with an increased tariff. I like this flat but I'm not wedded to it. And if I do have to move, I'm thinking, I might be able to find somewhere that has advantages this one lacks. I might find a place with a bath.

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