When I was a kid, I went through a period of being obsessed with light bulbs.
Not in a useful way, mind. I wasn’t really obsessed with how they worked, or how they were made. No, I was interested in types of light bulbs. I’d wander any given department store, investigating. What’s this, a 40 watt bulb? 60W? 100W? 150W? When do you use which type of bulb, Dad? Why? Why?
And if the wattage alone was exciting, then you can imagine the state I was in when I discovered that you could buy bulbs of different colours. And, of course, I wanted one in my bedroom immediately. Why would I put up with a boring white bulb, when I could have something far more interesting instead?
* * *
Nottingham, in the early 90s. A detached house in the beautiful leafy suburb of Wollaton. There’s a primary school just over the road. It’s as respectable a scene as you could ever hope to find.
But beware. Every night, one window of the house glowed a curious, inviting red.