For my weekly writing spot on this site, see the One-Minute Mystic, with a new meditation posted every Monday. Also see The Village, the story of Misty Longings, England's most beautiful village, posted episode by episode earlier this year.       Another summer afternoon in Brighton, and most make for the pier. But not us... no, we're watching a house, and every move inside. And wondering if the police will come. Everyone loves the homeless until they notice you're out, force the window or the front door, and take up residency in your home. My son had just moved into his new student house, when, back in London for a few days, he heard that squatters had moved in. A builder doing some work had discovered them there. "And they've got a huge Alsatian!" he reported. The students had been paying rent since the beginning of August, but my son was the only one to have moved his stuff in. Our first thought... Alsatian or no Alsatian... was to get down there, knock on the door and try to get his possessions back. But then the Landlord phones to say that the police are now involved, and that we shouldn't provoke the squatters prematurely. That's why we now watch the house from a discreet distance. We have been up close... and seen the notice the squatters put in the window. It is a printed flier about their rights of possession. They declare themselves to be the legal owners, quote legal acts, and threaten proceedings against any who trespass on their property... even naming the various prison sentences and fines that would come our way if we did. Something in me died when those who had forced open the front door to gain access, now threatened fire and brimstone on any who forced open the front door to gain access. The police said they'd be here at 4.00pm. We watch various people enter the premises. For my son, Harry, it's up, close and personal... like having to provide hospitality for your burglars. And then the police appear. They knock on the door. It doesn't open... but a window does. Negotiations start. The squatters are not moving, and angrily list their legal rights. The sergeant knows these, as he read them up before coming out. This is a civil, not a criminal offence, and therefore there's very little they can do. "In Scotland," he tells me, "it's just plain illegal. No problems for the police there." And then Harry gets involved, raging at them from the pavement for taking his home. Something inside seems to change –there's connection. The window closes; silence. And then the front door opens and out come a line of the drugged, the stoned and the drunk. And a small friendly dog who was nothing like an Alsatian. We go inside and it's dire. In Harry's bedroom, there's dog excrement on the floor, and used toilet paper; oh, and someone's urinated over his Gaugin book. You may not like the man's art, but even so. Locksmith and cleaners rub their hands in glee, as squatters, police, landlord, son and father finally part company. Later, one of the squatters returns to ask for some CD's he left behind. I go in and fetch them. We all fight our corner... yet see ourselves in every stranger's eyes. More writings © Simon Parke