You, John Smith, live on the fourth floor of Block B, and are neither a toff nor a pauper. You are, like most people in the residence, shut into a tin... single room with one door, and one window, barely deep enough to take ten short steps across lenghtwise, and barely wide enough to be able to stand in the middle of the room and not touch the walls when rasing both arms up. However, you have your own toilets, your own two electric rings for cooking, kitchen sink, and a small fridge. Everything. ”“Why?”“The video of her singing on YouTube. Can you believe she’s had almost a million hits?”“A million what? Hey! Hold on! How did that video get on the Internet?”Another silence. “I posted it,” Peter finally said.A burst of anger hit me. He’d gone too far this time, invading our privacy. “I can’t believe you’d do that without permission, Peter,” I snarled.“Hey! Take a chill pill! I did have permission. I asked Amelia. She said to go ahead.”“Sorry. It’s early. I haven’t finished my coffee.” I. More

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