The street can be heard in this room as if it’s set in the middle of the white dotted line. Once, as a parade of emergency vehicles whizzed by, my Dad commented on the phone, “Are you outside? I can hardly hear you.” Sometimes when I sing too loud I wonder if those on the street can hear me as I them. It seems only fair as I unintentionally catch a lovers spat. They are commonly drowned out by a pack of school boys, as if I’ve changed the dial on a radio. But who needs a radio with my flatmates. Guitars, whistles and ukuleles pump rythms into our perfect eggshell walls. Lyrics of hobbits and wizards to match our handmade posters of JRR Tolkien’s perfect world. I wonder it they can hear us on the street as we use our walls as drums?