sunny afternoon

I have always wanted to have a room in the attic as a child, instead of the big-windowed, spacious room overlooking the street I had, with its harsh light and too much wall for my liking. I spent one happy winter living in the low-ceilinged, wood-panneled attic of our house while the windows in my room were refitted. The first thing I would see upon waking up was the sky, or sometimes the white-gey cover of snow that had accumulated on the roof overnight. It felt peaceful in this attic hideway.



So it's a happy coincidence that I do live in an attic now. On a sunny afternoon, when the light bounces off the mirror onto the ceiling, and there is jazz music, clinking of glasses and laughter floating in from accross the street, and the unused lamp sways gently in the cool breeze, and I lay in bed with a book, it feels like being on a ship, in a cosy cabin, rocking on a warm sea; safe but exposed in my high looking out point. I doze off and then jump up when I hear a roar of a fire burner, and people calling in the street. I jump to the window and there it is, the massive hot air baloon, nearly low enough for me to touch the basket, the sound of the fire burner deafening as it climbs over the roof, and disappears.