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.