We called it ‘Preacher House’. Though the preacher that once lived there didn’t do much preaching within the curdled beige walls, preferring instead to commit sex crimes against his congregation. Or so the story goes. Preacher House was, this threadbare winter, rattling with Newtown hipsters, who drank oat milk and shaved their eyebrows clean off. Without them, they looked foetal and pallid: amoeba fermenting in a draughty womb, holier-than-thou vegans preaching polyamory. Where once sermons rang, the tinny drone of online lectures and oh god prayer of Tinder hookups reigned.