On my daily morning walk to Tufnell Park tube station I pass through an old narrow street which leads to a social housing unit showing some architectural eccentricities; a couple of oddly shaped conservatories, inwardly even more oddly designed are stringed together in however quite a charming and little metropolitan way. Passing by, I always encounter the same people. There is a blond woman, slightly aged but still strikingly attractive and stylishly dressed, leading a blond boy on her one hand, in the other a pushchair containing a girl; she appears to be stressed and over-worked. There is this woman with the slightly bloated face, looking somehow miserable but not disillusioned as if hoping for better to come. I miss the teenage girl I used to see who was always on her mobile, a gruff, swearing girl of a similar type like the main character in the film Fish Tank; I later saw her in a nurse uniform and was somehow relieved so as if one didn’t need to worry about her anymore. But of all my morning ‘acquaintances’ I like most a father and his little son cycling by. They speak Spanish, and they would often speak with each other, entertaining stuff as it looks, and sometimes they laugh with each other, the father in all his mildness, the son with a bright little voice, the father on the front seat, the son on the back seat. They convey this warm feeling of an intact family in which everyone seems to be protected against the evil of the world.