Two men stand by a fire engine. It is covered in sound equipment. Cables, with electrodes are handed me. It is like a giant PlantChant device on wheels.
Björk stands next to me. She has electrodes too. She presses them onto my skin, experimenting. Listening, quizzically, to the sounds and notes produced. The men at the engine gesture. I explore Björk’s skin with electrodes. Our sounds combine. Our rhythms beat against each other and overlap, until a kind of discordant harmony is reached. She sings:
It came through Carlisle
Torn with love
She’s singing about my Army surplus jumper. I ask how she knew that I bought it in Carlisle? Tears are in her eyes. We arrange to meet again. She has to be free at night, her favourite time. I agree to meet in the morning. She leads me through a garden with old walls. She tells me she loves me, and flings her top over some bushes. I go to retrieve it for her. Old ladies in black headscarves hang up washing. Dogs and children run about. I pick up the shirt, but she’s gone. I walk to a mountain road. Somewhere in the Pyrenees. A man asks me where my dogs are. He loves the theatre I write. He lets me stroke his dog.