Aquarion

Early morning. A dismal great British morning, the sky a cloudy grey, the streets silent as the grave, slick as the oil, and smooth as a mill-pond. A row of terraced houses – each a repainted replica of the one before – cower behind gardens that range from the weekly-tended though to the burning-tires schools of landscape gardening. Exactly halfway down this road was a house exactly halfway between those standards, exactly halfway between the rents, halfway between the gutter and the rooftops. And here – halfway between the middle of the night and the middle of the morning – is halfway between the begnning and the end. Did I say this was the