I’m in exile, modern style. My life - or, at least, the things that make me Frances, the books and records and old clothes and instruments - is in boxes, on a floor in Hackney Wick, while I wait for the person in ‘my’ new room to move out. An unforseen complication: that’s fucking Hackney for you. Borough of inefficiency and wanderers. This time last week I was having an existential crisis about what to keep and what to throw, what it means to still have your teenage diaries and relics from exes in cupboard at the age of 27 (don’t answer that, I know ‘ that you are a sad fuck’ is probably the appropriate response); now I just hope I have clean socks and the charger for the mobile. My guitar and a bottle of shampoo are in a top floor flat in Manor House, N4, watched over by two delinquent cats and, hopefully, Alice R. Me, my powerbook, a few CDs, Eric Hobsbawm’s Age of Revolution and lots of paper, we are in E2, London’s fashionable E2, rescued by the shining light of wonderfulness that is Sophie. My new toothbrush and my Promethea book are in the guardianship of my sweetheart in Bow, E3. A few sets of book proofs I’m working on are in Wallington, somewhere near Croydon, SM6. Surprisingly, right now, only a few things bother me about this situation. One is the guitar. I packed my open tunings book and left the guitar because it felt even more like imposing than it already did, to bring a guitar round. I’m now craving it. I’m like, so where’s the guitar? Where are the instruments? Where is Sophie hiding them? The other thing is that while I’m here I’m condemned to wearing what’s in the bag, namely jeans, Converse, a selection of warm jumpers. That’s it. No boots, no gowns, no fancy jackets and vintage jewellery. I look serious and shabby; no messing, all in black. Forgot to pack any make-up. Am enjoying my new spartan look thus far, because I haven’t left the house, except for working, which doesn’t count. My world has shrunk agreeably small. Wireless internet is amazing. Writing is hard. Comets on Fire play tomorrow night and I’m to be there. Looking like this, unless I manage to raid the new house for something appropriately psych-rock to wear. I will go there, I resolve, reach into the clothes bag, and wear the first thing that comes to hand. It might be the red dress that looks a bit like a Jean Muir from the 70s, but it will probably be the army flying suit. If you see me there, be kind.