Sinnet

I am attending some sort of celebrity/ex-pro tennis match being held in a large, multi-floor venue (which at times feels like a construct of stacked scaffold structures, somewhat insubstantial, wrapped in blue tarpaulin material. The stairwell, by contrast, feels like part of a solid old building being finished in cold concrete with flaking paintwork – almost like some derelict 1970's housing block-

The event is organised by my old architecture employers and at times I see one of the directors Gee Haitch – he is wearing an unusual white suit with splashes of coloured pattern and eyes me through the attending crowds. I am accompanied by an ill-defined friend/partner and am there to (reluctantly) perform some sort of task, the pair of us making our way (as instructed?) from the top(?) of the arena down through the uncomfortable throngs of people, carefully negotiating the distinctly insecure stair passages. As we near the bottom things are descending into chaos. Punk-ish schoolboys – for something now suggests it is more that sort of mob – begin, at first playfully, to spit, scramble and (play) fight in the (now) building-esque stairwell, and I am lucky enough to skip through a closing door just as the young bodies really let rip, forking into a gleeful mass of violence-

As I scramble round the door I see what I am convinced is a photo of Ewan McGregor as a grinning young boy, replete with a mop of 'helmet hair'. The photo, taped to the (glass of the) access door, is torn across the top left hand corner. This seems a particular shame to me as I'm thinking about how few photos there are of him when he was younger-

By the next (and final?) drop to the ground level the genial party mood, in spite of my misgivings, has returned – things feel sprightly and youthful (in a young women mixed with cocktails kind of way). Unfortunately the route to the main arena is actually some sort of flume/water slide affair into which I accidentally tumble and fall – it's an opening in the floor – and before I realise my mistake I am trapped, crushed from above by some sort of black inflatable object, the force of several eager, boisterous people behind it. Needless to say that all my shouting and scrambling, all my efforts to climb back up and out, go unheeded-

At the very bottom the mood has changed again (and abruptly). It is now raining and the scene has a distinctly washed out feel. The centre court, partly obscured by tarpaulin uprights, is deserted, the few people lingering nearby are morose and depressed. My companion immediately collapses onto a sun lounger to our right (exactly where I had expected our tennis stars of yesteryear to be) and sprawls (asleep?) in the fine rain. I would do the same only the lounger to my left, located towards the opposing side of the court, is already similarly occupied. Do I sense Gee Haitch expects me to step out into the drab, foreboding centre court and entertain everyone? I certainly seem to be waiting in the wings – thinking maybe my older friend from the comic scene Jay EmmCeeEss will step up to the plate? - and kick at the black rubber matting underfoot as I contemplate my next move-