I’d had nothing to eat but flour for the last two weeks, flour and some tinned him that the old ladies over the road had given us, and that had been a fucking production – I’d thought I was dying of food poisoning afterwards and insisted on them calling a doctor who’d looked at the ironic partnering on the table of a packet of anti-psychotics and a dingy looking bong and had decided I’d probably live. For some reason, this imagined near death experience had prompted me to drag my bed along the hallway into the kitchen. Up until that point I’d shared a room with a guy called Paul. I would wake up in the morning, make myself a flour and water pancake and then just hang around til Andy stopped crying under his duvet at having no cigarettes. We’d then sit in his room, high on fumes from the stuttering Calor gas heater, both bashing away on old typewriters, writing plays. We’d drink some cider. We’d smoke some pot. Bernard would be heading over to sign on with a big plastic lobster under his arm, Andy would take the free dog that someone had given us out to snarl and lunge at strangers. I’d mooch around the flat, ignoring the dog shit, malnourished and over medicated. Happy days.