Taken from my kitchen window, overlooking the rooftops of Farringdon and Clerkenwell.
At first I thought this was a man until I got the binoculars out and discovered it’s a long, not-an-ounce-of-curve-or-fat-on-her whip of a girl who trains out there on her roof terrace at around 11am come rain or shine. This is no namby pamby keep fit routine. Is she training for the Tour de France? Can’t be, no women allowed there. Is she an olympian? I’ve seen a man at those French windows a few times. Are they married? How nice to have a roof terrace in the middle of town with enough space to exercise. They can’t be short of a bob or two. Where did they go on holiday last time? Does she wear perfume? Maybe that’s all frippery to her. She probably doesn’t wear heels, too tall. He’s American and she’s German, native Londoners can’t afford to buy property round these parts….
And so it goes. A character in a story is born out of a single happenstance and extended musing. That’s what writers do.