Christmas has become like a dead stone dropped in a calm lake. That hollow sound that swallows you up. I guess I'm past that age when christmas means anything but those same songs in every shop. I'm helping my mum get the house ready.

Yesterday I caught Gavin on a day off and enlisted his help in switching the rooms around. Whilst I sorted through cables he told me about this idea for a film about two professional torture artists who operate in an efficiant, micromanaged fashion. I tell him it would make a good short. In the garden, smoking a spliff, he passes down fragments of collected wisdom concerning 'biting your tongue with siblings' and the power of the silent treatment. I tell him to flesh out his ideas on paper before launching into a story. He says he's too lazy to be a writer. On the walk from his house to mine we talk shit about being members of the underbelly of society. He reckons i'm crawling my way out but takes pride in being a lifetime member. He talks like a parody of a young black gangsta, like the streets were his crib. He also talks like someone who knows the value of talking shit.