If you have five seconds to spare, then I'll tell you the story of my life...



Jay 'Singy' Singleton may as well be made of concrete.  He lives in the shadows of the Gardens, moulding into the stairways and walkways.  Shooting up in the hidden spaces under the stairs.  Lying down on the concrete roundabout staring up to the stars oblivious as opiate heaven descends.

Singy is one of the ghosts of the estate.  A raging heroin addiction which has turned a man with little hope into a shell of human who no longer has a concept of hope.  He looks older than his 28 years as if life has been hard.  And it has.

Life wasn't always this way for Jason.  He did alright at school, knocked out a few CSE's, managing to get a job at Goode's pies, wheeling out tray after tray of pastry goods all day for the bakeries and chippies in the area.  Jason (Jay to his mates, when he had them) was an unremarkable man which made his fall from grace even worse.  He couldn't point to a tragedy like the other junkies could.  Oh yes, everyone had a tale to tell.  Half the people he shared needles with had fallen out of kids homes, suffering a childhood of abuse and neglect.  Others suppressed grief.  The death of a parent, trying to forget what they saw on an insignificant rock near Argentina.  No, for Jay things were more tragic.  He first took smack because he was bored.

In the tunnel that cut under the city centre, leading to the car park of the new shopping centre he and Dougie sat whilst it pissed down.  Dougie was already on his way then, offering a line of the brown off a piece of foil.  It was the stupidest five minutes of Jay's life.

Jay remembers it well.  His stomach churning, his head spinning and then the sickness, that terrible sickness as he puked his guts up.  He'll never understand why he did it again but once he did there was no turning back...

He's tried to get clean, honestly he has.  'Gonna sort my life out,' but you can only barricade yourself in the flat so long.  Sooner or later you've got to go out and no one will talk to you anyway.  Those bridges are burnt.  The only people who would talk to you are the other users so you just end up back where you started.  The cold turkey a complete waste of time and misery for nothing.

Jay used to read, used to write.  He fancies himself as a poet to this day.  Maintaining a diary for those few moments of clarity.  He dares not read back.  It is too desolate.  In his fantasy he has much to say, 'I used to be good looking, I used to have a job, I used to be worthwhile'.  Everything in the past tense of a life that is no longer his.

In his head, Jay can still hold a room with his wit, can still turn the head of a pretty girl but as he gets older those days are getting fewer and fewer, living in an illusion of his making, 'Paul Daniels couldn't pull this rabbit out of a hat...'

He thinks he's still one of the lads, but the only parties he ends up at are those in cold bedsits, where the electric is off, and in any case anything with a plug has been pawned, stolen or sold.

In an estate where people have nothing it is the junkies who are the outcasts but even they are human too.  Now and then the sun pokes through the clouds, those five minutes when you feel alright, the rattle of withdrawal manageable, the need to score and the eternal bliss that follows put to one side.  In those minutes Jay dreams of a job, a girlfriend, being clean.  He talks of long dead anarchists, philosophers and poets, speaking with intelligence and something resembling warmth and wit.

But then the dragon comes and scorches him with her fiery breath.