It was that terrifying summer in 2022 when London reached 40C. I was staying in a friend’s flat while she was away for a year, a former housing association property where the living room ceiling permanently had a hole in it. Each day, the air felt thicker and the leaves looked more limp. Dust clung to every surface. With no wind, the stench of the bins lingered.
I’d nicknamed the guy next door “Techno Guy” because his life’s great pleasure appeared to be sitting in the driver’s seat of a parked red convertible, stereo on full volume, revving the engine but going nowhere. Maybe it was to preserve his car battery, maybe it was to get away from his wife. His music genre of choice, Shazam told me, was Romanian techno (though he was also fond of the Cher megamix). He smoked constantly, each drag like a first breath. The sound of him hawking up phlegm in the morning became a kind of alarm clock.
