On a street corner, somewhere in south-east London
I turned left after the furniture shop and started to walk faster. I had covered a mile in what seemed like only a few minutes, and now my mind had turned to Jill's cosy flat, situated halfway up in a depressing tower block, on an estate overrun with drunken teenagers and single mothers. God, it's an awful place, but people have to live somewhere. Teachers, hotel receptionists, salesmen, plumbers, and low-ranking police officers. They all have to live somewhere, even if home to them is a tower block in south-east London. People have to live, eat, and fuck somewhere in life, and we can't all live in posh streets, in fancy houses, and drive big cars. Only a small percentage of people are lucky enough to fuck in massive beds, on sheets made of silk, in bedrooms that overlook fantastic and breathtaking landscape that make you glad to be alive. The rest of us fuck in small beds, on cotton sheets, in bedrooms that overlook slag heaps or junk yards.