From my sofa, through the balcony window I can see the gardens of the flats below. Opposite my building is the back office of the local post office. Every night, without fail, they leave the light on. It is bright and there are no blinds to dim the glare. Instead, I can see straight into the room, with its sorting bags and piles of stationery.

I have a habit of glancing in to see what is going on. Nothing ever is. But I know that one day I shall see some activity that shouldn’t be happening, perhaps a break-in, a robbery. I shall call the police, who will catch the offenders red-handed. I shall be celebrated. Or stalked and punished by the mafioso gang involved. One way or the other.

Or perhaps I’ll just catch a glimpse of an illicit office affair. A sweaty balding pudding of a man will be backing a gawky middle-aged post-vrouw up against the glass, rifling through her blouse. It will be a rushed crush tangle of a moment and then they’ll part, she smoothing her hair, he straightening his tie and zipping his fly.

More likely, nothing will ever happen worth noting in that back office.