My room is a sidewalk away from a road, a block away from a pub(slash)bar, right next to a massive tree and (at night) a neighbour to tireless crickets.
With the window open, I can hear the foot steps of every pedestrian strolling to and from their respective night shift jobs (or perhaps a foray with a lover – maybe a spy on a mission or a criminal from a mission).
It gets terribly hot in the summer but I am left with a choice between no sleep or drenching my bed in sweat (the latter wins all the time) although it must be said the older I get the less I do anything “profusely”.
My hearing can be impeccable, particularly when the drone of daylight and day time hubbub subsides and the still of the night rises like a ghostly fog – an ethereal entity which (peculiarly) amplifies all the little noises and agitates all the discreet senses:
I clean my feet (to make them soft) so I can rub them together whilst in bed (such a lovely friction which takes me back to my childhood when I shared a bed with gran’ma and I would rub my feet against hers during the winter to warm mine (which always felt like the feet of a corpse) even to this day my feet are stubbornly cold in the winter)
Funny how the smallest things give rise to often buried memories…
But I digress.