A woman leans out of her window every morning to smoke

The same woman leans out of an apartment window every morning, smoking in long, languid drags. The number beneath her window sill is peculiarly antiquated. The wide arch beneath the building is also from another era, one of coaching Inns and long trips down to the South coast. I wonder if there are children in the room with her, whether it is one of the numerous bedsits situated above Streatham High road?  Why does she never go anywhere, is she trapped? If so, by economics or more sinister forces? She looks calmly down at the traffic. I wonder if she knows I am drawing her? At Goldsmiths I used to draw someone in an office opposite my own window over and over again, until one day I looked up and an entire room full of people were staring back at me through yellow binoculars. Turns out she was doing a project about spying on lonely people in office buildings and I was one of the subjects.