I remember when we were hiding behind the sofa with the lights off. Me and sis and mum. Our flat was on the second floor and the floor to ceiling window looked directly out onto a grassy hill. We called him Elvis. Not after the King of course, but the weird one with thick black framed glasses. I bought one of his albums not long after.
I think he was a squaddie. Maybe he had notions of being in the SAS. He was looking for my mum and trying to see into our flat. Trying to not look obvious. His body silhouetted against the skyline. Bless him, I remember he had a broken nose, flattened across his face like a bubbly pancake. He offered to have it cosmetically altered. My mum was having none of it of course but she liked the drama.