So this thing called an empty show is organised in a derilict house in Cooks Hill. A bunch of guys and girls grab their stencil folios and spray cans and gaffer tape and poster glue and marker pens and head down to Dawson Street. When we arrive people have been there before us and there are strings of beads hanging amongst the ivy curtains, bunches of dried flowers in the old oven, a headless person made out of stuffed stockings lying in the front yard, and a painted green foam head on the mantlepiece. Amongst other things.

There is a 'beware of the dog' sign on the fence, but no dog. I manage to step in dog shit in the yard though.

The doors to the house have been taken off and laid flat to cover the holes in the rotten floor boards. I make a new hole myself and fall through to my knees. We walk up the stairs with trepidation. I lean against a windowsill and it falls off.

There is great stuff going up on the walls. A little girl and a lion cub grin innocently from the south wall of the main room. Later a girl paints red slops of dripping blood from their teeth and claws. Transformers are over there talking to each other in chatroom acronyms. John Howard does a jig. Scientists hold up rats. J.F.'s 'Hot Rod Guy' stands on the mantlepiece. Equations go up above doors.

I don't think I need to wear a dust mask but when I wipe my nose later it comes out blue.