Up the stairs, Mister

7.30AM Last Saturday, I'm half way up the stairs with one end of a sofa which is proving to be one inch too big for the banisters. As it's wedged between the wall and the banisters we can spend time hatching a plan. We could try the other way - but it measures more the other way - and anyway we've tried that way already. We could smash the banisters up and replace them later? No, the only solution is painfully clear. We carry the sofa back to the van. Luckily there's a back-up sofa in the van, which we carry out and up the stairs in about fifty seconds. It's tatty but comfy.

Later Saturday morning I'm on the bus, my rucksack on my knees, travelling an unfamiliar route East towards Rough Trade. We drift through Forest Hills; the Jewish community are out in their Schtreimels, the big furry hats, some more furry than others. They must be off to church, there's a nice sense of community here. I seem to spend most of my life looking out windows watching how other people spend their days. I'm just trying to get some ideas together.

In my rucksack is a loaf of bread, a notebook, a coat rack and a drill. I'm going to put the coat rack up in my hall later. It'll give the hall a more homely feel. It's what the hall needs; autumn is approaching.

The bus passes through Stoke Newington, which has nice expansive green areas and slightly shabby looking three storey houses. It looks like a good area to live, reminds me of Lark Lane in Liverpool. The bus carries on through Dalston where street traders sell piles of clothes and rugs laid out on the street.

The bus reaches Whitechapel, I ring the bell and grab my rucksack, my arms already aching from moving the sofa.