4:19 a.m. From the gallery

Sleep very patchy. Up here because I may as well say goodbye to this spot for old times’ sake – and because theycannot stop me from ‘sulking’ in my own damn company if I want!

‘Spin in your cups while you’re able.’ Their opening words.

They found me in the swivel chair with the mead bottle, spinning in a tornado of cigarette smoke, this diary cached ninja-style, safely out of sight.

‘Finish it,’ Serge said, unimpressed. ‘We want you sober tomorrow.’

I regarded the booze in a new light, embarrassed. Sensing this, Serge said, ‘You’d be a fool not to,’ pulled my chair towards him, pushed my head back and ordered me to open my mouth. Ordered.

I struggled.

‘Uh-uh-uh!’ he barked, ‘Head back!’

I swear, Iswear I hate him sometimes! Where was the call for this?

He lifted the bottle high like a garden figurine and poured its contents into my mouth. The deluge of mead bounced off my throat in a kind of Grecian water fountain, soaking me, my new chair, my cigarette and their tablecloth