Each day when I get home, I change my clothes and go for a walk on the beach, pushing away the horrors of A Block, B Block, C Block and D Block. The playing fields are not my playing fields. The trees are not my trees. The grass is not my grass. The concrete is not my concrete. I am living in a stranger's house, or not quite a stranger's house—I am the relative with neither money nor credentials, duty and obligation rubbing shoulders in agitation.

With my biro in my hand I string miles and miles of tired words together. It is like the most enormous wedding for two people of consequence who are, in themselves, quite boring. Every word is carefully dressed and chatting lightly to its neighbour, putting on a good face. The only joy is the clean page, the feel of it, cool and silky, before the words smudge and crease it, before the information dents the surface.