A moment later, I had arrived at my new door.
It was a tall door. At the crest, the polished wood spiralled up, glossed over by the thick red coats of paint lathered over generously. The knocker was small and brassy with a griffin’s head with the gold ring stuffed in to its mouth in an attempt to silence it. The knob, just beneath the gleaming golden lock, was dull, unpolished and brassy, deeply set into the wood. I bent down, realising if I rung the bell no one would be home, for this was my place now and picked up the small golden key Owen had said would be under the doormat. I stood back up to slip the key into the lock, there was a soft metallic clicking sound as the key turned, like the clinking of glasses with some sort of clacking sound added which reminded me of a locomotive. Picking up my case, I enter my new residence.
My flat was number 5; the loft flat. After I stepped across the threshold into the structure, I shut the door behind me. I turned my head to the perfect ivory spiral staircase which led up through the building post the painted porcelain walls with an artistically draw blossom tree growing up through the side, seeking the light of the sun in its summer glory. I walked up towards the first step of the staircase and took a look back, as if waiting for a reporter to snap a quick photograph. I giggled to myself at this latter action. I pulled my suitcase up the marble steps past several doors at various landings. I just couldn’t resign my eyes from staring at the unrelenting opulence of the place; huge French bay windows with crystalline panes, partially obscured by long sweeping eggshell white drapes, hooked back by twisted gold nooses; pretty dainty china painted vases with their own delicate little floral patterns mimicking the blossom growing on the stairs; then my eyes widened as their gaze elevated to the ceiling at the very top of the structure; a huge chandelier hung, with glinting light from the huge windows spinning in the crystals and casting the rays of sun all around the place, like in a ballroom. Not that I had ever been inside a ballroom, though to curb exam stress, I had completed a 1000 piece puzzle depicting a masquerade in the Vienna State Opera House during the 1800s.
I found myself wishing for a waltz to dance to as I stood there in a kind of bewitched awe, staring blankly into the space in this ecclesiastical niche of gothic architecture and new popular interior design. I forced my eyes away from its spellbound beams and back into the large white painted oak door, which too had a large knocker. The temptation to knock was almost too much for me, though I resisted. I took the keys which I had laid to rest in my left pocket and lifted the other key, a silver one, to the lock on this door band it opened with a dull thud.