London was a very great inspiration to the great Claude Monet, who is my hero, London now is perhaps not all that it once was, but is still a most suitable place to paint with it's great fogs that leave so much to the imagination and the great diversity of aspects pretty and otherwise, this is one of the reasons why I remain in England, there are several others, it is partly because of my friends, there are other attractions which I may come to during the narrative process.

My apartment and studio is located at number 13b Britannia Street in the area of King's Cross, which is a most excellent district that is also affordable, which in life is often the most important thing .

Before I took up residence at this address I believe it was the offices of a thoroughly disreputable firm of lawyers, now operating in somewhere more provincial, but yet I may be mistaken, there was some talk I believe about someone relating to this property being hanged, but perhaps this was a rumour, people around here are most admirable in most respects but do participate in the most sordid and inaccurate gossip.

The premises occupies two mid-size rooms on the top two stories of a larger office complex, four stories high, most of which is occupied by merchants who I believe deal largely in coal, but I have heard a whisper that they may at times deal in such commodities as coke, paraffin, turpentine, white spirit and white slaves, although I have my reasons to doubt some of these suggestions.

At the top of the stairs leading from my meagre studio to my modest apartment there is a locked door, leading no doubt towards offices, from my bed I can reach a loft hatch, which when opened reveals a place where  a great number of records are stored, not that I should ever chose to pry, but I anticipate that these portals could prove useful in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Beneath me at number 13a are similar rooms, however the occupants of these are not of consequence.
To the side of the apartment is a railway cutting through which runs the Metropolitan Railway which sends it's trains rumbling and squeaking and smoking past several times every hour during the day and less frequently during the night and underneath the property runs trains from the Great Northern Railway, though the noise and smoke from them chiefly comes out from the vent to the rear of the building and across the road where the tracks are seen to emerge below.
Every morning I am awakened to the sound of coal being unloaded from the railway or canal, the sound of some other diabolical machines, the piercing tones of an engine's whistle, or else the loud tones of workmen and apprentices using the most vulgar language you could imagine, this represents a saving in that I do not require to purchase such a thing as an alarm clock.

I do not customarily leave the my rooms during the hours of daylight except to obtain sustenance for I find this commercial atmosphere oppressive, so fortunately I have many hours to devote myself entirely to my art.


Sadly it is not often that I get comissions despite my most earnest efforts at advertising my services, so my hopes were raised when I heard a knock upon the door, and descended from my room where I was examining a book of prints and saw a wealthy looking figure through the frosted glass...