Dransun

I am on a grassy moor of sorts, the sky dull and overcast, the general vibe being damp and chilly. To my left is a near-concealed opening in the slope of the landscape, a sturdy concrete construct that is (I know) a secret entrance leading to the mansion home of the (former Mansun) singer Paul Draper -

It is there or thereabouts that I find (indeed, I know I'm going to discover) a cardboard box chock full of hastily written sheets of A4 paper, an epic document that I know is Paul's autobiography in its most rough of forms -

I am then in quite an old fashioned office space with a very cold, stripped-back and minimal 1960's feel. I am seated near an internal wall, working, and ahead of me, sitting along an adjacent wall that runs across to tall windows, are two men at desks facing each other. They are, to my alarm, fiddling with the chunky metal radiator at their feet. Suddenly there is a surge of water from the valve that gushes across the floor, just stopping short of the toe of my shoe. The second time they are not so lucky and water jets out the valve, soaking and flooding everywhere. I turn my thoughts to my work, thinking ahead to the three documents I have left to action tomorrow -