Meeting at The Arts Factory

Fresh from the shower, the sharp, glassy scent of vodka radiates from his gleaming flesh, eagerly reaching out through the fisherman's jumper, the vintage corduroy trousers, the smock style linen jacket and the Barbour Crieff cap. The obligatory uniform of the upper-middle class creative man.

It's only when the lift takes too long to arrive that he realizes he's still drunk from the night before, and the night before. Like a child inexplicably tasked with driving a J.C.B. down a motorway: his eyes widen, he sways, his limbs suddenly very keen to appear to be doing something physical.

As the canned applause in his head dies down and the lift finally arrives, the cleaning team emerge and in his eagerness to escape the lobby he jostles a bucket from their equipment trolley, spilling purplish bleach and water down the front of his vast corduroy slacks.