My first apartment overlooked a field of patchwork roofs with the occasional gabled hillock and long, straight telegraph wire tracks ploughed through the air inbetween.
Pigeons, crows and even adventurous rats grazed on this grayscale land of asphalt and slate. Typical crop rotations were wind-blown plastic bag, grimy milk crate, TV antennae and underachieving art student failing to evoke his mental image of Montmartre. I once saw a fat man sunbathing in the nude, so I called the police.
Ah, the halcyon days of youthful summer in the city. Staring out of the freon smeared window, rationalising reasons for not paying your rent on time so you can spend a week on the Cape instead, where the rooftops look like sand dunes.