<strong>Tuesday 13th August 10:50<br/><br/>Pet Warehouse, Ferguson Street<br/><br/>Jessica</strong><br/><br/>He's not interested enough in anything about you to lie. That was clear enough.  But, despite his apathetic and unconcerned attitude to most things it's not possible that he's simply not noticed the large warehouse just down the road from his place of work.  Put it all together and what are you left with?  That a building you visited most days a week has disappeared, option A.  Or that you share enough in common with the well-dressed stoner parked opposite it to both be under the impression that had happened.  Option B.<br/><br/>Neither are great.  You rack your brains for a C but all are unlikely and, frankly, just as bad.  Some sort of Punk'd type show is out - far too much work gone into it, surely.<br/><br/>And while sure it's not your problem per se, it's hard to avoid the crushing feeling of powerlessness it inspires.  What's that, Jessica, delivering some coffees?  I think not.  Bam.  Asking for help at the local pet shop?  Apathetic uncaring for you.  Bam.  Need some sort of aid?  Here, have an incoherent druggie.  Bam.<br/><br/>For the moment, it's all a little too much.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">darras</div><div class="spoiler_body">Fight, flee or freeze.  Your choice.</div></div><br/><strong>Tuesday 13th August 10:55<br/><br/>In a Taxi<br/><br/>Bran, Norm, Miyo</strong><br/><br/>The taxi is back in gear and racing through Newcastle before the door has even fully closed, let alone a chance for Norm to get his seatbelt on.  It does slow, though, once you reach the student area of Heaton.  Largely because the residents seem to have attended the same road safety classes as the residents.  Too early - surely? - for them to be drunk but students wearing a variety of weird and wonderful clothing that you can only assume expresses their status as a unique and beautiful snowflake walk on the road or cross with narry a look.<br/><br/>He eventually pulls up outside a nondescript terrace.  Number thirty one if the numbers on the wooden gate leading into the tiny and unkempt small front garden are to be trusted.  An upstairs window is open and what you vaguely think is whale-song drifts out of it.  Other than that there's no real difference between it and the other terraces on the road.  The same empty plastic fast food container lodged in the hedge, the same desperate need for the windows to be washed and the same general lack of upkeep of the outside.<br/><br/>"This is you.  You'll tell Ron it was you wanting to stop off, like?  Need him to sign some forms for me."  He flicks a switch on the dashboard to unlock the doors, not, apparently expecting any money from you.