I wake up and I'm in bed with a broken wine glass, a forgotten fag that has left a deep black scar on the futon and a hangover the length, breadth and depth of Death Valley; but what worries me most is that the sheets are covered in blood and the smell of burning flesh is wafting over me . . .

There's a stinging pain in my side. I look down to see a large red welt on my ribs that's been bleeding. Looks like I've been whipped by a studded belt or something, which doesn't happen often enough.

I slide open the door a little to see the back of a small girl leaning over a cooker, frying meat. I walk over to a fridge and take out a beer and she looks across at me. She's pretty. "Hi," I say.