Outside my window, distant traffic roars. A glass oil lamp, placed on my windowsill and fashioned in the shape of a bird, flickers in the night breeze. It was bought by my aunt Carol. She was kind of eccentric; the kind of person you’d expect to own twenty cats. The kind of person that always seemed to be draped in an over abundance of scarves, cheap jewellery, colourful knitted cardigans and handbags stuffed full of trinkets and a few scrunched up tissues poking out the top for good measure. You get the picture.