217 Babel Street | Apartment 14
Damien was attempting to put up a shelf with a dodgy spirit-level when the buzzer went. He squeezed past his bike, hurdled a box marked "KITCHEN 1 of 2", hit the button, propped open the door, and ran back to catch the shelf before the bracket gave way.
When he turned, it wasn't to the sight of moving-men with the remnants of his life on a dolly, but to three elderly women. "Good afternoon, ladies." They stared, stern-faced, with pebble-like eyes. "Damien, is it?" intoned the stout one. He nodded, his smile tensing. "We understand you've just moved in." Please God, he thought, don't let this be a geriatrics building.
"Lovely view," wheezed the wizened one as she stepped inside. The stout one followed, surveying the jumble. The third old dear had a head that hovered owl-like between her bent shoulders. She stooped - without actually having to stoop - and removed his climbing boots from the three-seater sofa. "Ahhh," she sighed as she sank into place. The stout one eyed the wall clock on the floor. "Four o'clock," she reverberated. "Tea-time," mourned the owl. "Milk, no sugar," whispered the little husk.
He re-emerged with four steaming mugs balanced on a heavy cardboard lid. The stout one was knitting, her steel needles clicking like some ancient tongue. The owl held the ball of black yarn, unwinding it peaceably. The little husk sat between them, guiding the strand over her lap. "Knit two, purl one," they murmured together. "Knit one, purl seven."