I went to sleep at about 1 thinking about a lad called Ned who has no life of his own.
Mo was outside that hotel at 20 past 6 the next morning with 2 coffees he had bought himself, and we were through the gates at Leavesden by 10 past 7, and a woman took my phone off me 2 minutes after that and put it in a grey pouch with a magnetic seal and gave me a numbered ticket, like a cloakroom.
I had known that was going to happen since the 14th of May.
Chk.
I took the ticket and put it in my jacket and walked onto that lot thinking about 4 millimetres of swelling in an ankle 30 miles away.
And about 4 people in a room in Beckenham who knew what to do about it.
Then I came round the end of a scene dock and stopped walking, because they had built a street.
Not a set on a stage. A street, outdoors, on a backlot the size of 3 training pitches, with shop fronts and bins and a bus stop and 40 feet of road that goes nowhere, and 200 people working on it at 20 to 8 in the morning.
