35 Nick
Alan’s back bedroom looks more like the Starship Enterprise than a place anyone would ever sleep. A tattered old dining room chair is the only incongruity in this place of flashing lights and high technology. He has four flat-screen monitors, two side by side with another two on top, leaning forward slightly to provide a nice curved effect.
‘That’s bad that they’ve not given you your laptop back yet,’ Alan says, rummaging in a cupboard.
‘Yeah, tell me about it. I’m going stir-crazy not being able to write, too. It’s the only thing keeping me distracted at the moment.’
‘I can imagine, man,’ Alan replies. His upbringing had been very middle class, but he still had a bizarre manner of using colloquialisms and street talk which jarred with his voice. ‘We’ve all got to have our crea
