Mrs. Jameson lived alone in apartment five-fourteen, her only company being a near-dead pomeranian and daytime television. She regarded her neighbor’s business as her own, taking full liberty of nosing up gossip; mostly extravagant false stories that were similar to the soap operas she watched. She also liked to make sure that perhaps, one of her fellow apartment dwellers may soon become deceased, as she was always looking for a bigger, better apartment.

It was customary to see her daily, in one of her various housecoats, pink roller curlers encircling her gray hair, and her lingering aroma of cheap hotel soap.

‘Making my rounds,’ she said, knocking loudly on Friedrich’s door.

‘No, Mrs. Jameson, I’m not dead yet,’ Freidrich growled from behind his door.

‘Well, I have to check you know…’

‘Yeah, well people have work to do,’ Friedrich said.

‘You artists are a rare bunch,’ Mrs. Jameson said in a huff.

‘So are active seniors, but you don’t see the artists bothering them do you?’