From a station somewhat close to my house (about 20 mins on foot) I take a train to see my friend. The platform extends out from under a tunnel of square white arches, and it's bright with daylight, but everything seems to get darker and narrower once I step onto the train and the doors close. I get off at 'Westminster' after a half-hour ride*. Her house isn't far - next thing I'm there. It's much larger than her real house. She opens a huge black front door to let me in and we walk through a long, high hallway to the kitchen and dining room at the end. After a bit of chatter I open the fridge as if it's my house and rummage through to see what we could have for dinner. Chicken and chips, I suggest - and ice cream. 'Ice cream?' she repeats sceptically. 'Well,' I reply, a little embarrassed, 'I guess we don't need that.' We make dinner and proceed with plates down another long, white corridor, into a vast and bare living room. The ceiling is double height and the walls are panelled and painted white. There is a white sofa in the middle of the room and a TV against the opposite wall. (Seriously this is all - IRL her house is a MESS) We settle down to watch together, chatting meanwhile. I can't remember our conversation, though I recall it was interesting. Later, I leave, heading through yet another winding corridor through this maze of a house back to the front door (now, it's white). She unlatches the door and pulls it open for me as I step out into the dark chill night. I take the train home again - it's dark and eerily quiet - and finally shut my own front door behind me with a sigh. I remember, later on, my mum appearing to rant at me about how I can't just keep coming and going from my friend's house every week. I ignore her. *This is not where she lives, nor can you get there from the station where I was - besides, I always walk to her house.
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