Several weeks come and go, much like the pattern of storms that have plague these streets. And nothing of real significance occurs. The highlight of many a week perhaps, drowning in expensive vodkas, soaked moccasins and much needed sleep.

And it is not until Monday, when I meet with several Chancellors, that I realise I have fallen from my social throne. A fall I should have perhaps anticipated when my driver failed to return call. And so I walk. And in a fit of rage I stop mid street, and push down the hood of my cashmere pullover and unbutton my coat so I can breathe, and stare into the sky. And rain cuts into my eyes, and down the back of my shirt, and rolls off of my neck and fingertips. And several minutes pass and a car flashes its lights, and behind a horn. And I am brought back from the cold, and button my coat, pick up my holdall and carry on, as if nothing has happened.

And come Tuesday I feel strangely different. And find myself at a Calendar launch. And then in a club. But I have to pay entry, and suddenly the Stoli doesn't taste so sweet.

And on Thursday I find myself blankly staring at a stage from a VIP Arena. Which upon studying looks more and more like a sound control booth. And on the stage children sing Christmas carols, and a radio disk jockey's voice drowns monotonously. And I'm trying to feel festive, but the Luksusowa is making me nauseous, and the mulled wine that I am cradling is causing my hands to uncontrollably shake. And I want to vomit. But I don't. And instead in visit the circle of shops pinned into this performance area. And immediately want to vomit again. And I leave. Apparently missing an 'A-list' celebrity.

And I vow never to leave it this long again before touching base, with anyone, or anything for that matter. And on the train I push my headphones into my ears and An Angel Falls plays. And a light rain begins to stain the carriage windows. And shortly after, a storm.

I am woken by a ringing telephone, and at the end is my mother. Who tells me to stay away from trees, and something about a weather warning closing bridges on the South coast. And as I try to listen, I find what looks like the remains of a leaf under my pillow, and partly in my hair, and dryly swallow.

The wind is tormenting the sash windows, racking them in their rotting wooden frames. And as I stare across the blackened room, what used to be a palace is nothing more than a collection of material objects. Most of which I can no longer find a use for.

And in my mouth, the taste of nothingness. And the light on a small digital watch flicks on, and several minutes pass before the LCD scrolls around to 1851 and the Compact Disc alarm starts, and Remembering Sunday Plays from the speakers. And I think there really are very few trees here.

And from the window, in the kitchen, the Christmas lights in the street warp with the rain. Like dying candles. And I think of home, and Christmas. And although it's never an eventful time, I am looking forward to it, more now, than I ever have before. And the coast, and mould wine, and candle light dinners, and beaches on new years, and old friends, and college, and Berry Estates.

And at 0501 an alarm wakes me. My Antler case still empty. Clothes thrown into a somewhat unorganised pile. Clearing my vision and embracing the cold oak floor I make my way to the bathroom. Throwing a selection of Ralph Lauren garments into the pile as I do so.

And as the coach rushes towards Birmingham, and the driver announces security detail, plan stops and information on using the on board facilities, I'm hungrily shoving Nestle Skittles into my mouth. Flipping through a restaurant guide desperately searching for somewhere to dine.And I'm doing this whilst my ipod plays songs from Chase this Light, which seem to endlessly merge into one another. Tiring of the guide I choose at random a med restaurant, Ego. Call ahead. Make reservations. Throw the guide at the seat opposite.

And I'm left thinking, on this trip why exactly are we traveling via Birmingham. And why Liverpool of all cities? And feeling the anger and inconvenience that this week has caused rise I attempt to loose myself the only way I know how. In the life of someone else. Although quickly images of Paris bleed into my imagination, and the conversation I am no longer keeping, filters into deminuendo, as I push my headphones back into my ears, and stare blankly back