I was living in London in 2001 and had just completed my master’s thesis on feminist performance art. I’d left the printed copy at my new boyfriend’s rented flat and was on my way there to pick it up and turn it in after a doctor’s appointment for a bizarrely late case of chickenpox.
The flat my boyfriend had just started renting with two young women was in west London at the very top of an old building with a spiral staircase and a creaky elevator. As I approached the door with his key in my pocket, a stranger asked me for some water. My hackles rose as he’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and I bluffed having lost the key and instead offered him a bottle of water I had in my bag. He seemed satisfied and turned to leave.
