It's a quiet, cosy living room in Kensington or Lancaster Gate. The bay windows curtains are wide open, and the dim London light is cascading in, bathing everything in soft, winterly white. I'm sitting on a sand coloured couch, nestled amongst a knitted pastel throw and some cushions. The carpet is soft cream, and there is a dark electric fireplace in front of me, framed in wainscotted ivory wood. Bits of decorative interior reflect the scene in gilded gold. A bookshelf stands on the far wall. There are plants near the windows. I look to the living room doorway and there you are. Smiling.
I know where this is. I only wonder who you are.
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