Ten past four (in your afternoon), and I’m walking Pearse Street in the direction of Wales, or Zagreb, come to that. First Guinness sunk, but mind, only the one. Working most of the day in the hotel room on Draft 5 of The Script. B’s at her very big meeting. I pass under a 48-sheet and notice that The Team Here are still hard at it with their ‘other approach’ as regards something that used to mean something to me. It’s just getting dark. I like this time the best. John Butler Yeats at the National. Still, the unfathomable reclining showroom-dummy of Wilde on the rock. Grafton Street is in ruins. After a while I stopped photographing all the Morrissey shops and signs and vans and – well, because there are so many. Because of my poor education – I mean my very poor reading of maps – I must sketch out a city in my own hand first before I set foot on its streets. And triangulate flamboyantly, in my mind, with somewhere, and with sometime, and someone.