You were standing in a room about 10 foot by 11 foot. The walls were made of polymethyl methacrylate. Some of your friends were standing outside looking in, their noses squashed up against the plastic to form a horizon of dark holes around you. I was there, in charge of the juke box. We watched you struggling to pull your knickers on over your green laceless Doc Martens, which you had slipped on to the wrong feet. Your knickers were red with white spots. They kept on twisting. You were bent over and people were pointing at your anus. I was surprised at how hairless it was. You did not fall over and you did not manage to untwist your knickers. The first track was some hammond organ from the 1950s. Good stuff, I thought, to get you in the mood. There was a philosopher in the corner of the room. He was seated at a table which had several bottles of mineral water on it. Green bottles. He asked you, Would you like a bottle of Badiou? And you looked confused. Badiou? I saw you ask, Badiou? That doesn’t sound right. He stood up and walked out of the room, straight through the plastic wall. I turned the sound up as loud as possible just as you had instructed me to when you were telling me it was going to be a piece of performance art and I’d told you how indulgent I thought you were.