I am ten floors up in new Nu-London, surveying the city from Bromley-by-Bow to Canary Wharf. From here you can see the edge, a dream of hills and leafy lanes. Directly below, estate trade theatre, cop cars and alleyways, young mums and boys on the corners. Up here we are playing with club sounds, Breese and me, keeping it simple, trying to be edgy, clutching cups of tea and juggling giant cookies and plug-ins. Bass comes on. Bass goes off. Bass comes on. Bass goes off.

I am one floor up in the newly pimped Roundhouse, surveying the scene from stage to side door. From here you can see the diners, a whirl of linen, plated chops and swirling glasses. Directly below, the pit, next gen fever, wes and the crew and a swarm of hormones, learning the ropes. Up here we’re trying to fathom, H&N and me, why awards shows are always the same, why telly always feels so fake, why Melodica didn’t win the Best Radio Show or Podcast award. Band comes on. Band goes off. Band comes on. Band goes off.

I am one floor down in deepest Soho, playing love songs from Junior Murvin to Marvin Gaye. From here you can see the suits. A drunken dream of a life lived better. Directly below, the CDJs, the mixer, familiar territory, night’s landscape. Up here we’re playing music, Chris and me, keeping it simple, trying to be cool in my She One t-shirt and APCs. Tune comes on. Tune goes off. Tune comes on. Tune goes off.

I am one floor up on night bus 19, surveying the city from Piccadilly to Park Lane. From here you can see the sky, a dream of shooting stars and planes. Directly below, the action spills out of Anon And On, into the street, smokers in strapless this and strappy that. Up here, I’m keeping it locked, bag on seat, cash in pocket till it’s my stop, strangely unmoved by the day’s developments. And below the bridge, down on the river. Tide comes in. Tide goes out. Tide comes in. Tide goes out.