In the suburbs sits the eighth wonder of the world.

It looks symmetrical to its neighbours aside from a blue door, which has been photographed hundreds of times. Inside sits Alex, a middle aged man who is growing tired of the crowds, and of explaining that it was all a joke online with his friends.

Perfectly rectangular windows framed in white, neat stone steps leading to the door, black roof with brick chimney that coughs up a thin stream of grey into the sky.

Tourists gather on the streets, pluck grass to take with them, propose to loved ones and have family photos at 58 North street, now the most famous place in the world.

Alex tried to lean into it at first, but now he just wants people to stop writing their names on the pavement in chalk, to stop crowding him on his way out of the house with a million questions, to leave.

He loved this house when he bought it, but now he wants to rip it apart brick by brick.