Midnight by the flyover near Hanover and Grand Fields and if you listen closely enough you can hear the music pouring out of each car passing through the lights overhead. Just listen. Make out the guitars, the drums, hear the chorus. Pick out the tune. Its usually chart music, compilations, Best Ofs and shit but every now and again you get a classic you haven’t heard in years, like an old album track or flip-side or dance tune or something. I love that. Not knowing what you’re gonna get. What’s gonna play. What you’re gonna hear next. I love that. It’s like rooting through someone else’s record collection when they’re not looking, slipping a few inside your coat . . If you can just tune out all the easy listening drive-time shit and immerse yourself, you can really get into the spray cans, into the painting. Spraying the whole fucking wall like it’s a giant canvas of her and you’re all covered in paint and it’s in your hair, it’s all over your hands, over your clothes but you just don’t care. You’re immersed in it like you’re in some mad fucking trance but you never lose it enough to forget about the surveillance cameras or patrol cars that mooch around every now and again. You always know you can get caught at any moment. You never forget that. That you could be arrested. That you could either get a warning or go to court then you’ve got to pay a fine, maybe get sent down for a while if it’s a repeat offence. Usually they just confiscate your cans and give you a caution: ‘Yes officer, I’m really very sorry.’ Except if you’re spraying over ad-shells or hoardings, billboards, sides of trains, metros, bus-sides, shit like that. Then they get really pissed off. Usually drag you back to the cells and kick the fuck out of you. That’s happened before.