fiery globe

"you won't get any answer there mate. Half of 'em are all fucking dead, they just haven't bothered to bury 'em yet." With that the mystery (council worker? cat burglar?) man produces a bunch of keys and lets me in the side door to the impenetrable flats. Shit, I was hoping for a no access scenario, take some mail back. I've spent an age buzzing my way through the many delightful cominations of flat numbers (1a, 1b, 1c...up to 11d) trying to get into these Godforsaken places...'trade' button? Don't make me laugh. They haven't worked for years, if ever. They may as well have put 'burglar' buttons on.
There's four of these high risers on this walk and I've heard many a posties tale of turds in the lifts etc but I find the lifts ok, a chance to slump on the floor and recover from the twenty odd other flats on this route without lifts: just darkly stained concrete stairwells matted with...well, what exactly? The flies like it. The lift is dark and cool though the flats themselves smell of either cooking bacon or fermenting dogs. There's a polite notice at the entrance: 'please don't let your dog urinate in these flats'. Just urinate?? I never see a soul in these places, maybe they are dead. Once at the top it's a dizzying spiraly descent posting as you go. What a view at the top, quite breathtaking. A panoramic skyscape overlooking the Lune bridges, the Quay (ha, you get this to look at, suckers!), the City, park and beyond...ironic really. The flats, I mean apartments, on the Quay cost a fortune to live in, built for tuppence (half of the doors are rotting), soulless ghosts of former glories for rich mummy's boys...cramped plaster board shells...at least they give us keys to get in the place. Trade buttons have, well, plebby connotations.
I shouldn't even really be on this walk. Returning home from a blissful sleepful holiday to find I've been shunted from 'horses in the garden' walk to 'flats on the Lune' walk, as the appointed postie was scared of the flats(!)...I'd done this walk before so my heart sank at the prospect. Days late back trying to gain entry...I seem to be having better luck this week. The dearth of stairs remain...People are in/awake/alive/expecting me so it's a lot quicker. There's one block that defies logic...it stands out fromt he rest, built for the millenium, orange seaside decor...it's a yuppy style building on the wrong side of the river. It's even reflected in it's schizo numbering which is bizarre to say the least. Every apartment/flat (they're addressed as both, sometimes either/or) has e.g/ 1/39 2/47 12/24...a seemingly random string of numbers that flumox me. Devoid of logic or sense. I hate the place. when you (eventually) get in the place the rows of mailboxes (sensible people) are festooned with old letters addressed to, well who knows? I certainly don't. By Saturday I'm flagging from all this (and a vicious dog attack at some school gates(!)) and have to drag myself round. I sleep the rest of the afternoon...buzzing in my ears.