It is nearly time to quit my lodgings, to leave behind Miss Brown and her nocturnal manouvers, the portuguese men (and women) o' war, and the man who sings opera in the street. The sun is gently warming me, the bins are, finally, being collected and good honest workmen are heaving timber into the little theatre opposite. I shall soon be moving into the top floor of an old Georgian pub. "The Unicorn" which now houses a charity shop, hairdressers and offices is a rather grand building quite close to my place of work. It is built on the site of an old monastery, specifically over it's cemetary.
-- posted abroad