I have been trying to get downstairs at Camberwell Art College, taking my usual route through tiny windows. I decide it is too precarious this time and am advised to use the fire escape caked in pigeon shit. I am going up rather than down. I climb higher and higher into forbidden rooms - through the head's empty office. Here the chequered marble steps grow narrower leading into Russian style copulas until they are impossible to squeeze through. I race back down skating over the stairs to avoid contact with any official. Once outside I gaze up at the hundreds of complex towers and spires and crazy rocket launch pads.
I have just spent some time with a group of women sorting through a collection of music. Singing to myself, I return home to my loft apartment in a big house. Jonathan Aitken is reading on my bed. He has been playing the piano and makes some comment about the song I was singing. I am impressed he knows it so well.
Someone has sabotaged the overflow outpipe of the cistern containing the life blood of this building. When I climb up to the loft to investigate I see the ball cock has been removed. The pipe has been deliberately severed and water is seeping down through the ceiling. Not only that but the rich life blood supply for the building has been cut and is dripping slowly from a kind of battery. This is the equivalent of a terrorist attack. I work out how to repair the damage by getting others to help, connecting the blood battery to the water supply. We find a scrap of paper left by the saboteur- he hated change and anything that didn't fit in with the norm.
