Because of the crazy driverless lorries, the pavements are no longer safe, and we are forced to walk along high ledges, parapets and rooves.
My shadowy partner is more fit than me jumping up athletically; I just can't do it.
We decide the other option is to travel through the city basements avoiding danger that way. A special booklet is provided which is like a kind of basement passport.
I don't think it will work - I am sure no-one will know what it is.
After 20 years K has come back to life and has a romantic date with an Algerian soldier from the enemy camp.
K is nervous - he knows it could also be a military trap. He takes my mobile and a bottle of a substance called AMMO. It is so thoughtless of him to take the mobile into such a risky environment. I am furious about it.
Like a great revolutionary orator, a Polish artist addresses a crowd in front of Somerset House. He storms towards a shop window smashing the glass. Inside is a block of an extremely unstable substance at which he hurls a handful of coarse salt. A poisonous vapour is emitted.
How can he do this and survive I wonder?
The audience is spellbound and flocks towards him in admiration. Everyone now has their face bandaged as protection from the fumes.
This was no normal demo of environmentalists and ramblers - this was an expanding rabble in search of rest and sustenance. We knew they were due to arrive but little had prepared us for the large numbers gathering below our glass room.
"Dont give them one inch," says our friend, "we have to be tough otherwise the next generation will swamp and destroy us."