You stand in the hallway of your flat, your shoes leaving curiously-shaped marks on the dark-stained wooden floorboards. The walls, in a contrasting scheme of matte plum and gloss dark purple, are less alarming than seems reasonable. A single hanging bulb fights to impose its influence on the light streaming through open doors to the sides. To the south are tastefully built-in display shelves. On the middle shelf, spot-lit from above, is a plastic teaspoon. It matches the walls.
North: A leaded-glass door leads to the stairwell. South: an open doorway reveals the kitchen, all shining white units and careful underlighting. A bin bag lurks on the floor, part-filled. On the counter, a scattering of official-looking paperwork, and a range of cleaning products. On the hob is a small and precariously-balanced espresso pot. South-West: The dark-stained floorboards continue into the lounge, ending at a large angled bay window overlooking the road outside. Happily, the plum/purple walls are not continued, the lounge walls being a more restrained oatmeal colour. There is a picture rail, and a large old fireplace, suitable for leaning on while quaffing port. On the mantlepiece ticks a clock with two faces, one labelled 'Jonathan time,' the other 'real time.' The only other object in the lounge is a director's chair with 'Mr Hitchcock' stencilled on the back. North-West: A bedroom or study, carpeted in pale beige and with the same oatmeal walls as the lounge. A surprisingly small window looks out onto the street. The only object within is a bright yellow bicycle pump, placed upright dead-centre in the room. Perhaps it's an art installation? North-East: A long, very narrow bathroom, with pine that's tasteful in the same way the purple hall isn't alarming. A huge mirror backs the sink, a part-wall backing the shower and bath and almost blocking the snickelway to the toilet. A variety of bleaches, soaps and cleaning products are placed carefully. South-East: the master bedroom, carpeted like the other (or is that a study?). Oddly-shaped, thanks to a defunct chimney breast, a cupboard that, on inspection, contains a combi boiler with initially indecipherable controls, and a bite taken out to accommodate the kitchen. The bedroom is empty.
You have: - A set of keys. - A receipt for a gigantic fridge-freezer, to be delivered on Tuesday. - A Post-It note on which is scribbled: - A British Telecom account number. - A job number for ADSL activation from Pipex. - Meter readings from when you moved in. - A phone number for a shadowy government quango who may be able to tell you who to give the meter readings to.