I was born in London. I don’t remember it. My mother is from Accrington. My father is from Bromley. I grew up in Cullompton. I remember the light and the colour, the greens and the browns, the fields and the cows, the M5 and the cricket club, the cider and the hash. It is all still there, largely unchanged, slighty bigger. If you cut the earth in Devon it bleeds a deep red clay.

I once lived on my own in a five bedroom Georgian townhouse in Ravenscourt Park. When everybody else had gone the landlord forgot I was still there. The wysteria grew into the windows at the front of the house and there were mice in the kitchen. The lounge was flooded with a uniquely English wash of light as it gently lent towards the road. The television glowed pink. Whilst I was at my grandmother’s funeral I was burgled. They took a Technics stereo, a Canon Super-8 camera and a black waterproof Helly Hansen jacket.

On arrival I lived in a hotel on Sunset Strip for about a month. You are struck by the immense potential of it all. It no longer need be in confinement. I kept the white hotel robe that I had always wanted and had a small telephone with just 3 numbers on it for a wonderfully brief moment. The 101 slices through the flatlands like the sash on a Crystal Palace kit. The 10 is foreboding and resolute. Sunset Boulevard is everything one could ever need from a road. We sat and watched it all develop from the top of that rock.