On the private side of the door everything is different. It’s plain, clean and off-white. There are comfortable sofas I bought from a discount place on the ring road, a CD player which was old in 2000, a lot of mismatched Delft pottery with cracks in it to eat and drink from, and some old books from university. For lunch I make sure there’s always hummus and taramasalata with sesame bread. Under the kitchen counter there’s a case of Italian white wine made in the hills over Pompeii. It tastes of volcanoes and it’s not expensive. I buy half-bottles so that I can drink alone without getting drunk. Otherwise there’s water—Badoit, because chilled it tastes the way anaesthetic feels—and sometimes I shove some fruit through the juicer with ginger.