All the houses looked the same, one after the other. As we turned around the corner, it seems as if we would be walking down this street forever. Then I realised that my route home would have been the same for someone else; all houses would have looked just the same, their gardens barely tended, so perhaps the sole difference was that this was your route home, and not mine. And perhaps if my home were to be at the end of this journey, I might have been more receptive to this never-ending street where houses appeared to have been cloned and flanked right up against each other.

Even as your shadow cast longer than mine on the autumn pavement, I wasn't reassured. This is a city I have never loved. But we talked like old friends, joked like old friends. It sometimes feels as if our existence were determined by dice. A pair of sixes and it would be 6 hours together. Or perhaps it had to do with who held the full house?