When I first arrived in Fulham, the planes roared above me at 4am. Flying low and close, just skimming my head, way up here on the fourth storey of a town house. If I lay on my bed and looked up through the sky-light rectangle window, I could make out the under belly of one of those jets. Flying in and out and over and out.
It’s near three weeks now, since I first arrived in Fulham and I don’t hear the planes at 4am. I know the sounds of cars and sirens and jet engines and footfalls. They are the same sounds as birds and windy branches and insects and bush-peace. They are familiar. Or on their way to getting that way.