text: I dislike the neighbour across the road, a certain Mr Hammond. He has two extremely small dogs and a hunched and offensive stance. I have never seen him smile, and to be honest I don’t think I want to. A demonic influence plays havoc with his face as it is. Mrs Talbot from number 62 has a granddaughter she couldn’t be prouder of. A banker from the city with all the trimmings. She ignores the bad press of Miss Innocence like an ignorant mule, only with stiffer lip. She declares no shortcomings of her own either and is often a case to avoid. The London family had no number on their house, but a name for it was considered of taste and fashion. The London’s were made up of 7, the parents and 5 children. Everyone wore the same style of glasses, even Henry the 2 year old. Their dog, a Dalmatian even had two large sockets of black around its eyes. Number 54 was empty, except for the remnants of an empty sort of life. Mr Dane was a hermit of no affection or infliction. His life, or presence on this planet made no difference to himself or others. Now I see that it did. The Hunting by name, and hunting by nature, family lived at another named property. They had acres of land attached to their garden, where they grew organic produce and set free wild game for hunts. They were eccentric like a family of dukes, but they were of common product. At number 2 lives Mrs Shrew (as blind as one too). Of Italian lineage, Mrs Shrew was a retired schoolteacher and part time mafiosa. She wanted for nothing as was as quick witted as she was evil. Number 33 was the house painted black. The windows were bordered in white, and the garden was always immaculate, even more due to the religious statues. Here lived the Lessons. Mr Lesson liked to see himself a philosopher, with a Socratic approach to life. His wife owned a flower shop specializing in funeral wreaths. There is no logic to the numbers down this lane. The residents chose them as they forged their foundations. I am a fisherwoman by trade, and I only come home after months at a time. This house was my fathers before me and his mothers before him. And so it is all down the lane, houses of the matriarchs. All except number 16. My house. My house was a poor affair, a sad place for a child. I would walk in the woods that surrounded the lane and its fields and wonder where all the happiness was. Was it in number this or named that? I had to believe it lived somewhere because it didn’t live with me. I grew up in the middle of a country that bordered land to the north and south, and sea to the east and west. I chose west. The ocean became my refuge, the waves my mothers embrace. My boat has no name and my life has no number. Number 16 is now nothing but a pile of bricks and scattered bones.