Whirring from Champs HQ
A bustle deep in Ossian Mews.
Twin green doors pass smokey belches.
Innumerable cheap French lager cans discarded within; a bottle of clear liquid, Serbian, perhaps.
Cheesy puffs. Magnetic tape. Arpeggiators.
Man with makeshift ultra-violet scanner examines with mischievous glee.
Rule: The communal toilet door remains unlocked. Broken.
Adjacent pilates practitioners look on in what may be unreserved awe.