And it’s 1706 greenwich mean time. And I’m lying on a bed whilst sunlight floods through the louvers of the windows, inviting glare as it does so. Wishing the Finlandia and Pom in hand, was a Polish Bullet. Feist playing somewhere in the background, the open-season chords broken by the ring of the telephone on the bedside cabinet. And as I turn to answer it I realise I’m late. And I really can’t be bothered.

I take a Perrier (can) from the mini bar and make my way to Diagonal, where I use a T10 and get the L3 to Catalyna, where I stop at the market. Which is closed. And eventually the metro carriage pulls into Espanya. And by the time I reach Montjuic I can’t actually be bothered, and so I swap the meeting at Arte De Cataluná for the sweet English tea at the Fundació Joan Miró, which of course is worth the extra fifteen minute walk. And it’s the first time in three days that I have a pot, and I’m stealing it into the gallery, where I’m pretending I’m interested in the art, and some woman has used her vagina to recreate a famous painting, and the Mercury fountain, which has been here for what seems years is still pissing its silver liquid into the skyline. And a host spits a string of complex Catalan at me and I have no idea what she is staying.

And it’s around 1930 (gmt), and I’m walking back via Mirador del Palau Nacional, and the cityscape; a jewel in the evening sun, stops me. And I just sit on the steps and think, and stare, and jot some sketches. And I’m taking the slow way over to Van Der Rohe’s, late for a meeting with the CEO of some agency at BCN Montjuic, and my phone rings and I click on loudspeaker, as I pull the Dior sun glasses from my face, and drop them into a Vuitton Utah Leather messenger.

I'm staring at a blank screen, and the images that are running in my head, are reluctant to construct into coherent prose. And I guess this is writers block. And the cursor is still flashing, beckoning for movement, for characters to be produced.

And I find myself in the back of a new silver Fiesta, and the lights in front are glaring in the evening hue. The Hendrick's I've consumed causing a momentary loss of focus. And it reminds me of that night it felt like the south of France. The car pulling up curbside, unloading luggage, whilst the unusually thick, unusually warm May air hugged our bodies.

Only, the driver is smoking a Mayfair Smooth and the car moves freely though the empty Sunday streets. Cruising to a couple of apartments. Where some people enter and others exit the vehicle. And the smooth, freeness of the drive reminds me of similar journeys, comforting and grounding. And for the first time in several months, I feel at ease. At home.

And as the evening fades to night, and the Fiesta's red lights merge into the grain of the city, I'm dropped at the Church cornering my apartment. I have an inclination to go inside. But don't. And instead walk to my front door. Inside my shirt is pressed and folded, and tomorrows outfit, for a Stoli laced dinner has been composed, and is waiting in my dressing room.

The rain, so light and warm, yet heavy enough to push creators into sand, before burning away. The walk through the dunes, through campus. Dark cloud replaced with patches of long evening sun, hidden by falling dusk. The surrounding woods. Music from across the courtyard. Music from the room which we shared, Feist. The light in the kitchen, unshaded, attracting insects, bringing the smell of cut grass on their wings. A poster on the Jade wall. The click of a kettle rising to boil. A taxi ride. A cool night-wind channelled by the linear street. A hospital. The spring rain. Fresh, clean.

Days filled with coffee and magazines, cocktails and shopping. A suitcase filled with designer clothes. High-street,low-end boutiques. A cashmere jumper. Mcdonalds. Foam gathering in the fountain. The old city, the castle. Two litre, cinema Cola. A shop which sold steroids out back. Vitamin supplements, three days grace from the gym. Abandoned warehouses. Steel works looming across the bay. An apple striped shirt. Sand on our feet, your back. The view of home across out stretched sea. Long nights. Your taste, your touch. A photograph, memories. The night fires. Grey Goose. A train journey. The riverside. A hospital.

So I wake up after a string of nightmares, mostly about drowning. And a wave of apathy washes over me.

Outside it's mild, and dark. I'm wearing slippers, and a hat. A hat which I last wore in 2005. And I'm walking and its 2103. And as I'm walking I'm listening to Sometimes by City and Colour, and I haven't listened to this album since last summer. During that week where we drank gin and swam in the pool, and lay on the concrete floor in the sun, tanning. And the mildness reminds me of those late September nights and I'm thinking of the summer to come.

And a rented house in London. And for a week, or maybe more, depending on how long I can last we'll watch Secret Diary of A Call Girl. As the open windows channel the evening breeze past the morning papers on the table and into the room, carrying the smell of melting tarmac. And by night we'll stay out drinking in bars, and coffee shops, or walking the streets until dusk or maybe even eight or nine in the morning, and then we'll collapse and sleep all day. And eventually MTV will win us over.

And by the time this scene has played out I'm sitting on the door step, smoking a cigarette. And I can't inhale, so I stub it out. And go back inside, and close my eyes, and as I walk up the stairs I wonder what it would be like to be blind. And I lay down.

And the chill makes it around two degrees, and the lack of sleep makes every step an effort. An attendant peals back the cage, and white-light from under the street level floods through the stairwell. And by the ticket machine I glance in to an office, but your not there. And I'm on the complete opposite side of the city. Victoria, South-bound, is dead, and delayed by two minutes. And eventually one station becomes another, and then nothing more than a vast flood lit hall. The steps on which we first met, empty, and the windows behind, towering shadows. And platform seventeen, and that moment three years ago, seem so distant that they become almost irrelevant. But because of this I'm reminded of you. And I'm no longer sure what exactly it is I'm reminded of.