This is not the first time I have done a noticing/marking exercise; in media one we were asked to make a list od all he media around us, and the task was frankly overwhelming – in reality, the sights, sounds and smells of what surrounds us are infinite. To more extremely notice what’s going on around me, I have chosen to sit in what is usually the most unobserved and unremarkable of functional spaces – the stairwell. Long hated for the physical effort it represents, long past are the days of decorated and grand entranceways of bygone eras. I have to say, it’s difficult to clear my mind enough to focus on what’s going on around me – I’m caught up in my own world of sporting selection, covering work shifts and even social-media-less me is struggling to resist the temptation of jumping onto my phone to check for a response to the emails I just sent. But here goes. What do I see? This one’s easy. I see the bright red chucks of the girl – was it even a girl? – who just walked past me. I see a thousand grip spots on the steps, worn smooth (I touch it now) by use. I see dull silver stair edges leading to a brunette lacquered brick wall, bordered by a pattern before it turns to white plaster. What can I hear? White noise; that whirring, buzzing sound that could be an air conditioner, a plane, a boiler; or even a thrumming motorbike or a plague of cicadas on an African savannah. I honestly can’t tell; it’s like trying to focus on some text just slightly too small to read: letters emerge, and thus possible worsd, but then the g turns into a j and, second-guessing yourself, you give up. In higher focus is the constant satisfying click of the doors falling into place, the almost cold in its singular functionality lift bell and the uneven yet somehow iambic slapping of footsteps hitting the floor. In actuality the whole place is cold – this is what I can feel – but not to the point of discomfort; I almost imagine I can feel a machinated breeze passing through on the way from some temperature control epicentre. I feel the hard bannister edge jutting into my lower back; it’s time to go.