As she puckers and pouts down some subway far beneath the stabbing grounds of North London, I stick my hand down my trousers and whip it out. There are ghosts and werewolves lurking in every shadow, not to mention the blurred faces of suicidal strangers with nothing to lose, but my bladder screams to be emptied, and empty it I must. It’s cold, so cold my little man shrivels up the second he feels the glow of the fluorescent lights spunking out from above. He resembles a cocktail sausage. Some shitty specimen from the reduced section of Sainsbury’s—one that’s been half-eaten and then spat into the gutter in disgust at how cheap it tastes. The piss that leaks out of me is a shocking shade of orange. It’s not in the least bit healthy looking, but that’s no surprise given all I’ve drunk for the last three days is bottled beer and corked wine. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy sniffing the lingering scent of funny cigarettes setting her porcelain teeth on edge. At the corners of her mouth spittle foams as if she were rabid, and when she parts her lips to speak, I see a wiggling tongue as juicy as a succulent cutlet of seasoned pork. Pulling up her fluffy hood, she spins and flicks me a grin, and as she snarls like only she can, the millions upon millions of tonnes of despair above our heads hold no interest. With any luck the bombs will come and wash it all away, and when we rise looking for smokes and something good to drink, the path to the future will be paved with organic coffee beans and feral cats and all that will remain of those we once hated will be their near invisible outlines, silently dissolving into the stratosphere.