Dezzavet

A Thursday. Mt friend Enn Bee and myself are in Forbidden Planet, London, putting up posters, featuring V For Vendetta, for a David Lloyd signing. Much confusion. The signing itself is eventually undertaken by FP's bespectacled general manager, leaving me perplexed. Even then, there are 4 of us now postering, 2 for each floor, and it is the day of the event (now, to my additional consternation, suddenly the Friday). Enn and I make slow progress, the shop walls are more like teaching spaces, covered in giant maps, class timetables and related information. Neil prefers to apply the blu-tac to the wall first, relying on his judgement, then to hang the poster thereafter, slowing things up considerably-

Now up high in the rear stand of a typical stadium structure, attempting to put the posters on a stretched honeycomb style concrete construct. To the sound of resounding screams we see the centre of the pitch begin to slowly sink into itself. I immediately run off, shouting to Enn – stock still, busy texting his wife on his phone? - to follow. Sense I am cycling, or rather out-cycling the disaster, which is happening at my back. This scene becomes more and more abstract, I withdraw from part of the action to an almost computer game vantage point and control-

Monday the fifth of April. I'm there, suddenly on the bus, aware that I have jumped back in time. I overhear someone comment that the world is supposed to end on Thursday. Just as it did. My attention turns to my recently completed comic, a comic that is vivid in my mind, having created it, but lost in my backwards travelling. I check my folders of work, hoping it is there, clinging onto the memories of the piece as I do so - 2 A4 pages, drawn landscape to create an A3 overall. 4 large panels to each (akin to a strip I drew). The priority now is to recreate this work in the time remaining-

I'm then at Hope Street Studios, sitting in the main room with fellow artists Cee Ess and Tee Cee. The furniture has the sense of being huddled together, the room feels smaller, and the layout is puzzling, the atmosphere mildly unsettling. We are talking about who we expect to turn up that evening. I mention it is Tuesday. Cee Ess frowns. “Isn't it Wednesday?” 

Everything blinks black, save a tiny yellow rectangle of light towards the bottom l/h corner of my blanked vision – a mind power cut-

“Oh, I get it. I'm dying. The world is ending.”

I then know my mind is creating the best comfort construct it can, building a jumbled approximation of reality. This small, imperfect means of reassurance in my last moments. “That's right”, Cee Ess replies, explaining there's been some sort of seismic collapse. Tee Cee confirms this in his usual dry manner-

Another short of my mind-

I am staring into the hall of the Studio, conveniently orientated to be straight ahead. A tear, of which I am so acutely aware, sits below my left eye, perfectly formed. Cee Ess is matter-of-factly announcing that nothing will survive. Not Bute. Not Arran. I am aware that no one close is with me and feel abandoned. I shout in desperation for Kay Emm. I shout for my friend Jay Emm, knowing in my mind it's a year since he passed away, but does that matter? I consider shouting for Cee Cee-