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We're running through the town with an ounce of hash and a box of candles. There's only one place we could be going. They seem to have boarded up the door again but we are equipped with Doc Martens' and a need for something, anything, to do. Small towns are not the most exciting places in the world when you're a teenager. After nonchalantly kicking the door in, we settle down to our sophisticated evening of entertainment - setting fire to things, trying to find someone who will buy us vodka, graffitiing, playing boat races and generally being delinquents.

Our stylish evening abode is furnished with an overturned bookcase that serves as both table and chairs, several breeze blocks, a giant piece of plywood that serves as a door (to keep light from reaching the street more than anything), and a lot of dust and rubble. Someone else with nothing to do at night has built a skate ramp in the next room. Our wall art is a local paper from 1979, when the building shut down. I have so far stopped people from scribbling swear words on it, because I think it's quite cool.

5 of us are there. Getting stoned, CD (!) player blaring Cypress Hill, playing silly games, talking, laughing; and as grown-ups fail so vigourously to understand, living! Eventually, inevitably, D says something to L and she storms off in a huff. He follows; we make jokes about the make-up sex they have obviously staged to get away from the rest of us. Horny bastards. At 9 o'clock, C leaves to get his lift ...

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