I’m standing in line to enter Windsor Castle . A workman drives into my field of vision from the left. He gets off a motorbike but leaves the motor running. When he lets go of the handlebars it rides to the right and crashes into a white van. The forward momentum of the motorbike carries both bike and van into the wall of the castle, smashing a hole in the stonework. I celebrate the damage, whooping and cheering.

Inside the castle, I am with a group of visitors being led down a long gallery, furnished with tapestries, ornate upholstered furniture, chandeliers – the trappings of a royal residence. I move across towards the wall on the right hand side of the room. I’m not walking but floating / gliding on a rug which may have wheels under it.

Cut to another interior. A house in which I am living. I look out of the window at grey skies and the backs of houses. The window frames are rotting. There have been poor attempts made to repair the frame with the children’s building blocks. Cracks and holes in the skirting boards have been repaired with sellotape. I look at the ceiling and see water leaking through the plaster at the point where the wall joins the ceiling. Droplets are forming. I rush upstairs.

The bathroom is huge. There are three showers, all of which are on full. I cannot turn them off but someone tells me that it doesn’t matter because this is a “millions of pounds per night hotel”.