The cellar floods when the pump stops, it is a green pump from the age of steam; it ticks. When the cellar is dry it attracts mice.

On the landing beneath an opulent carpet is a dark wood parquet floor, underneath which the footprint of a cat is printed in white paint. The carpet was an annihilating gesture – a removal of memory – so that the footprint in the corner would be forgotten.

The direction of the house is such that birds are constantly flying into the kitchen window. The event has a very certain sound, the familiar thud and a swallow’s broken neck, usually at teatime: a summer-sound.

There is a photograph of Sir Percival hidden in the sofa; a painting that can talk to the moon; a broken glass oval; a red balloon; hair pulled from a brush and discarded.

The front is adorned with carved faces, some are malevolent whilst others just comically grotesque; props for young knights in practice. The house filled with ghosts, though only once we were gone.