We lived on the third floor of a nine story building in Prague. The sepia skies and indeterminable afternoons of the late seventies. Karel Gott warbling his iron curtain versions of Roy Orbison hits on our crackly, tired Medium Wave radio in the kitchen. OKJets fleeing from Ruzyně to unimaginable worlds beyond my scope. Scuttling trams directed along rickety lines below - same faces, same days, same lives.
"Och, those people", my mother - raising her eyes in distaste at the stomping feet from the smaller apartments above.
My mother looked down on the people above.