A letter from Aug 08, 2023

A Love Letter to 52 Barons Court Road From the four windows of this flat, I can see close to forty other windows. Over six years, I have seen other lives evolve alongside mine. A continuous flux, constantly changing, turning, leaving and arriving. I have lost count of the number of people who have shared my front door. Some whose names I knew, whose faces I would recognise, and others who just shared a close existence without ever crossing a word. The green carpet gave way to blue, yellow walls to pale grey. Furniture accumulated, mementos of six years’ worth of travels near and far took up shop on shelves, photos have been swapped in and out of frames, artwork has been hung and taken down. The kitchen has only become more cluttered, a pantry only ever filling as soon as it’s emptied. A new washing machine installed, an old electric pay-as-you-go meter replaced with a properly labelled fuse box. The boiler’s timer never quite got fixed, and the old kitchen window hasn’t been opened again since 2019. From my four windows, I have watched the sun shine, rain pour, snow drift down, hail pelt, clouds flicker by. I have watched thousands of flights land into Heathrow, millions of tube trains rumble into the tunnel, heard countless cars honking, drunks singing, people laughing. The large tree by the phone box has cycled through many seasons - losing all its leaves in a cascade of orange and red, only to regrow them in the spring, signalling the arrival of lighter and brighter days. Our doorbell has rung thousands of times, with delivery drivers dropping packages, friends arriving for dinner, neighbours getting locked out, burglars trying to get in. The stairs have never failed to shorten everyone’s breath as they huff and puff their hellos and smile because they reached the top, but also because we are standing in the threshold welcoming them in. Walls are stained with red wine, signs of excessive drinking often accompanied by endless laughter. Dinner parties have been held at the extendable table, always cramped and cosy. Plates piled high on top of one another, dishes left for the following day or following week. Stories have been told and retold tens of times, the same jokes made, surprises given in the form of birthday parties, three-course anniversary dinners, treasure hunts before surprise trips, and “I picked us up something nice from Whole Foods”. A sofa creaks like an old man complaining about his old bones after being someone’s bed for three months, providing the foundation for lifelong friendships and being somewhere for friends and family to lay their heads for a night. These windows and walls have provided refuge, a safe place to rest our heads during a pandemic, somewhere to hide away from the world and overwhelming grief, a welcoming light at the end of a long day at work, a quiet space for the few weekends with no plans. Synonymous with home. Occasionally somewhere we couldn’t wait to leave, but more often than not somewhere we couldn’t wait to return to. A storage cupboard became a home office, a lounge was re-arranged at least eight times, a bedroom reconfigured and loved. A cat was brought back, much to the chagrin of the downstairs neighbours. She settled in and claimed it as her kingdom. A young adult moved in and looked out of these four windows for the first time, barely 21. She sat at the glass dining table and ate a dinner cooked for one, wondering what work as a receptionist at 42 would hold the next day. A nearly 27 year old woman moves out, looking out of these four windows for the last time, having cooked a dinner for two and played with the cat, and wonders what her life in Montréal will hold. She’s had three jobs, got a Master’s degree, lost a parent, earned and spent money, travelled extensively, attended friends’ weddings and funerals, spoken about the future and reminisced about the past, become infinitely richer in smiles and laughter. The world around these windows has changed dramatically, seeing wars, pandemics, elections, natural disasters take place. But through it all, the creaky joists have held up the old floorboards, the walls stayed intact despite plenty of drilling and botched DIY, and 52 Barons Court Road has remained my home. My constant regardless of the world surrounding it. It is my time to leave it, allow it to provide refuge to friends. I hope its warmth and kindness extends to every future inhabitant and they find the same sense of safety and security within its walls and windows that I have. Thank you for six years, number 52.