Saturday morning is wet and cold but nevertheless promising. The Asian looking girl on the tiny balcony across the yard is tapping her ballerinas on the wooden groundboards and is slightly moving her bottom to some unheard rhythm. With a pair of scissors she attacks a faded rosmary plant, snipping away twigs and moving her hands like a pair of fluttering canaries. On a spur, she turns away and disappears back into her kitchen. For a while I can see the bright red colours of her striped pullover through the glass panes of the French window. Then, only messy reflections of her balcony and a blue and white wall.