Before I finally go to bed—after I've showered to wash his smell off me—I take a look out of my window and there at the kitchen window of the adjacent building I spot some small bloke sitting alone, and the thing is he's not eating or drinking a coffee or anything. He's not even reading the paper. He's watching me. He looks really creepy; he's got beady eyes. I wonder if he's a pervert.

I go and get Blair.

'Have a look,' I tell her, urging her closer to the window. 'There, you see him?'

'Yeah.'

'He was watching me.'

'What do you mean?'

'Watching me! You know, staring.'

'How could you tell?'

'I just could, right!'

'Was he...I dunno! Was he touching himself?'

'How should I know? I could only see his face.'

'He doesn't look very dangerous to me,' Blair says. 'So what if he's in the kitchen just looking out of his window; he's probably just sick of his room. You know how depressingly small our rooms are.'

'What if he's the Serial Rapist?' I say, my voice rising. 'Can't you go over there and tell him to fuck off, or something?'

Blair looks at me as if I've just suggested she smear dog-shit over her muesli.

'Fucking weirdos,' I tell Blair, grabbing hold of her arm. 'They're everywhere.'