He sat on the wall, lightly kicking the heels of his frayed Converse trainers against the crumbling bricks. He watched the shiny yellow and black wasps indifferently crawling in and out of the densely leaved dark green hedge and flying away and landing again and thought about the car crash. Smears of light on wet tarmac. Glass and metal and plastic swirling in a kaleidoscope of cutting shards. Screeching and buckling and tearing. And then silence. And darkness. And the smell of Jasmine mixed with motor oil. He looked up as a raised voice caught his attention, and gazed in rapture at a city that seemed to be trying to climb into the sky. He jumped down and buckled on his rapier, tatty jeans, unruly hair and washed out Maiden t-shirt incongruous amongst the frock coats and bustles of his fellow passengers at the rail of the Garden Ship ‘Tree of Fools’.