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Her parents were hippies, obviously. She probably had siblings called Stream and Tree and Dew and Fieldmouse and Aubergine. Except no, because she was American, so the youngest would be Eggplant. Lots of siblings anyway, lots of free love and all that. Probably didn’t even know what a condom was back in their day. Didn’t have to. Not like today, when it’s all ‘don’t share a needle’ and ‘careful who you sleep with’, and god I wish I’d been a teenager in the summer of love. Why’s AIDS got to hit just as I get to university?

This is what I’m thinking as I stand outside her room, reading that old tin sign she’s got pinned on the door, ‘Keep Out Of Lake’, wondering if that’s like ‘Do Not Disturb’ where she comes from, wondering what I’m even doing here tonight.

OK, so I know exactly what I’m doing here tonight. After what’s happened this week, I need someone to talk to. Someone to be with. Someone who understands. And I need Lake to help me find that someone. Or if not to find them, at least make them want to talk and be and understand right back. Because that’s where I always miss out.

I still haven’t knocked. Direct action and me, you see, never really hit it off… I can always find things to distract me. Like wondering what’s happened to the definite article on that sign, presuming its original intent was to keep people out of The lake, i.e. an actual geographical feature rather than just the strange American hippy witch I’m here to see in the hope that she can abracadabra away my loneliness tonight.

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