To have a man (or a mere slip of a lad, as he appeared to be) at the window, stood christ-like with arms raised and body obstinately darkening the length of the pane, is a remarkable thing.
To have such a man observing you eat breakfast, with hair arranged in obligatory bedhead peaks and frizz, whilst concentrating very hard on pretending to read the paper, is more than a little disconcerting. Especially at godforesaken hour, when the transition from dreams to reality has not been completed in its entirety.
It is not so much the fact that he is there, on the other side of the glass, a couple of feet off the ground, more that the whole scene seems perfectly regular. Like I often have floating men looking into the kitchen over breakfast. As I walk in, sorting out file and school bag as is the norm, a mere nod in the direction of said man happens almost without concious awareness. It is good manners to say hello and acknowledge people in the morning, and it should make no difference if they are floating outside one's window or otherwise. A bit of British stiff upper lip and old-fashioned decorum is all that's required.
We both sensed the other as we went about our business (him with his frame painting, me with my coffee sipping), yet remained affably seperate from each other. He could look into my world from the outside, peering in with the security of double glazing as a distancing device. I could feel warm, comfortable, and smug as I revelled in being inside and out of the sheer-bloody-freezing-ness. A happy arrangement.
Of course the whole thing is a lot more alarming when it's the bathroom window they're stood at. Eek.