Yesterday I found one of my rubbish bins smashed. The old security door I'd propped against my rear lane entrance had fallen. Yet there's been no wind. I suspected a burglar, but nothing was missing.

It's now Friday night - almost a week since my discovery. I've just spent an hour taking Polaroids of the tiles. None has come out properly, though all the lights are on. Only those taken near the skirting boards bear any resemblance to their subject. The walls are crystal clear, but there's only black where the tiles should be. I tried to chip a piece off one of them after I ran out of film, and nearly brained myself with my mechanic's hammer. It bounced back with more force than I'd put into the blow. My telephone has rung three times. Each time I've picked it up, there's been silence. I put my answering machine on and there hasn't been a call since. 'Skat', my cat, refuses to come inside.

I'm writing this because I feel too foolish to tell anybody. Reading it over I feel better, since it all sounds like crap. Dave, my best friend (my only friend) is coming over. We'll get pissed and I'll read him this and he'll laugh himself silly. The night is very quiet. A van has pulled up; I can see it through the gap in my curtains. White Mitsubishi: nothing threatening about that.
Ah, here's Dave, running up my stairs. I've got to go.

To be continued...