ten/threesixfive

Packing up my stuff.

Thinking, it's not sad that I'm leaving Crusters, it's brilliant that I'll miss it here because it only goes to show what amazing times we've had here.

Back in September, we started a scrapbook, called it I Predict a Riot.

What riots we had.

nine/threesixfive

The Masquerade Ball at Founders.

Est is djing, I'm pretending to dj so I can give marra support and get in free, yeah, so we're dressed up to the nines and standing behind an incomprehensible sound deck.

Dinner jackets and ball gowns, people drinking and dancing to smooth jazz.

After the band, we whack on some Beyonce and run out to dance in the two minutes Est has before she has to press buttons again.

This has been the weirdest seven days of my life, so I get my groove on and a beautiful man tells me I look snazzy. All is well.

eight/threefivesix

The quietest cigarette in the world.

In Sam's back garden in Belsize Square, sitting on the steps, the house on my left, the open door, spilling just a little light onto the ground, the other flats above his, lights off, nothing there.

So quiet.

For a moment, then, there's not even any cars, and I listen more, to hear the hedge moving slightly, bugs and an animal, to hear the sound of Sam's cameraphone clicking at something in the house.

More, to hear cars several streets away, someone's heels on the pavement.

And more, the noise of the city itself, the dullest roar of millions.

So quiet, when I take a drag I can hear the paper crackle.