Back inside, just past the balcony door, was a chunky beige PC running Windows 98 with a permanently magenta-tinted screen. On the balcony were plants surrounding a designated smoking wicker chair and often an audience of pigeons. I later learned that these moods were often strategic and responsive to particular astrological transits-many years later she instructed me to wear uplifting red and dab rose oil on my wrists during a particularly damning Neptune transit.Īs the upholstery, wall art, and rugs shifted according to color, some things were constants: the scattered semiprecious stones along the mirrored sidetable, the bookcase filled with astrology and crystal magic manuals and mythological texts, and the bowl of plastic fruit on the small dining table whose grapes I had, in earlier childhood, tried to chew more than once. Disguised by the dusty blonde brick exterior of the government housing block, her unit was legendary in my eyes, its interior decor evolving over months and years like a painter’s body of work. I remember the small, round tin lunchbox my mum packed for me with rice and chicken vibrating in my hands as we made the weekly drive in our clunky, baby blue Volvo, from Summer Hill to Hoxton Park to attend my abuela’s astrology lessons.
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