Next door, housemate's screams of frustration rise and fall like a particualrly leisurely snuff movie. He's working on putting together a custom PC case of baroque and unfathomable design, and it's taxing his wine-sodden mind. Screw C? Left-hand Screw C? He comprehends not. And he howls.

I lean back from my keyboard and think idly that at least he has a road map, instructions, a plan. He knows the route his ordeal is to follow. Me? I don't know yet. But there's something out there, and ideally I'm going to find it and bring it home for people to wonder at.

I have an idea. I have some notes. I have Nick Cave singing sad sad songs. I have - a rareity now - a glass of red wine. It could be enough.

And - God above - does Wine taste good now. A Merlot, which fills me up like a red smoke and makes me see opium trails. Red, because red was always for that. White for cleaning. Red for writing. Writing and sex. Writing, sex and catholicism.

Nick changes tone.

I take a single sip that lingers like a kiss.

Fiction-vessel Gillen, cleared and ready for launch.

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