Getting off the plane at Heathrow, it’s raining. Of course. But the sun is shining and there aren’t any clouds on the horizon. No, this time the rain is coming from within, from the ceilings. It would appear the fire-sprinkler system detects some madness. I carry on like usual, like all the other Londoners who are scuttling off to work in their mary-jane heels and lounging in the pubs with their sour dispositions. The only difference being that there is no going outside anymore. Everyone must stay indoors, under a shield of soggy, bitter, artificial rainfall. So I wander around the indoor tunnels and Tube lines. I’m singing “all the umbrellas in London, couldn’t stop this rain.” I get soaked to the bone and raindrops are dripping from my hair into my eyes and I can’t see well. I decide that if I am to continue in this city I will need a mask. I stop at a dank, soggy parlour in Picadilly and have my face tattooed. One long tattoo that jets out from the centre in a wave of pastiche. There’s no skin left, only dark blue inky lines that, if studied closely, seem to mimic the skull underneath.