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October 24, 2002
It’s 1.30 am, and the shouting hasn’t stopped. The first sounds of domestic violence that I’ve heard in the 3½ years that I’ve lived here. (The surprise of that suddenly hits me.)

Finally I’ve had enough, so I go down.

“Just be my friend,” she shouts. Two women’s voices.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s my friend, she’s…” her voice fades away.
“I’ve just had facial surgery, and it’s caused…”
Was she burnt? I wonder. Cosmetic surgery?
“Can I do anything?” I ask.
“No, thank you, it’s fine.”

I walk away, and wonder who they are behind their closed door…