The doorbell rings.

The doorbell rings. He opens the door to find his neighbour from the first floor. She holds a receipt in her hand. The creak of the garage door was just too much to bear, she says. She had someone come to repair it. The receipt in her hand displays the service and the amount. She's tried a few times to find him, she points out, but he never seemed to be home. He's been away, holidaying with his family. He'll keep the invoice, he says, being the person currently running with the building's administration.

A bit of small talk follows. She asks him where he's been. Ireland, visiting his daughter who lives there. It seems we'll all have to go abroad to find a job, she says, a hint of sadness in her words. She has just lost her job, two weeks ago. She could no longer afford to run the little retail store for household cleaning products she owns. She's not even entitled to make do with the dole. That's not all, however. She tells him her husband lost his job earlier this year. He had been working for the same big firm during the last 27 years, manufacturing lenses for Varilux. The company's had to move to another country to keep profits. He was hired right after he finished the compulsory military service in his prime. Now 48, with little initiative and with no other skills than manufacturing lenses, she fears her husband won't be able to being employed again.

Later that night he watches TV at the living room. Ads promote all kinds of unnecessary products, products that only money can buy. He finds himself thinking of his neighbours down in their flat, perhaps watching those very same ads in their TV screen.