I can see the black slate rooves, sitting proudly on their red brick walls, lightly-dusted with snow.
I can see a man in a red and blue tracksuit, shivering, smoking a cigarette in his garden.
I know that food is scarce for the birds.
A blackbird sees a woodie off from a piece of bread. The robins are pecking the frozen ground. The coal tits and blue tits cling to the bird feeder.
A woman in the adjoining block cleans her windows; her face set against the blasts of icy-cold air.
I see another blackbird poke its beak into the squirrels' drey and get short shrift from the occupants.
I can hear the silence shattered by the high-pitched yap of an ankle-biter. The muffled rumble of the tube. The swoosh of the fast train. The murmur of the African Chief's TV. The plaintive cry of the Lithuanian Baby. The water coursing through the radiator. The coo of the pigeons. The caw of the crows.
I can see the swirling seagulls reflected in the newly-polished windows.
I can see all is still and hear all is quiet.