It's an artists colony, a fucking artists colony. It's in a factory, a fucking big old factory. This is the new Eastern Europe, a fucking huge artists colony in a factory with the world's biggest arts supply shop and an outdoor cinema and an open air whisky bar on Tuesdays (thank god I'll need it). This is what is left of the DDR, this is the new centre for Leipzig, and this apartment feels like a Steve Bowkett fantasy, with a POD for a bathroom jacked up on stilts in yellow. It echoes, there's a fucking yoga matt, and a kareoke stage, but no TV, we all have iPads and Macs. Julie can really pick accommodations, she really can, and the place is full (well not really full- lets say drifting) with artists, young artists and their kids, no doubt all doing that horrible work. There is a cafe where you can scrutinise them, with the faint odour of poo. Maybe that's the canal. There you go, it used to be a woollen mill, it's big, it's full of artists, I'm in a loft.