Peeking into long-deserted bedrooms is a chilly experience. Some doors are locked and others swing open, and it’s as though the last occupant rises up to greet you in the form of stale rose talc or some kind of hair lacquer. Some lights work and others don’t, and some of the rooms seem positively to suck you in. The door marked ’14’ opens to reveal serried ranks of chairs covered in dust sheets: they appear to be bustling towards the door saying, ‘Choose me, choose me.’ Frankly, it’s a reli… (View original article)
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