What am I to say about Basildon? This evening I did spend several hour waiting in police station for relative who have spot of bother with the law. That there was no heating was primitive but I understand. Britain have heart which is colder now than I remember. I expect no more. Basildon is however beyond belief, like bad dream I once have of world with no windows or door. I see nothing I like apart from sign which say London. Even criminal is most pathetic I have encounter anywhere. Young man turn up for bail interview and forget if this is right day. He also forget what he has done and so custody officer have to play game with him to try and remember. He does not so young man goes home. Maybe he will remember and do crime again so he not forget.

Basildon, oh sorry place. So, to ease my horror of this town I write poem, but is too sad to say here. I show to my cat, Donald, and I believe he weep. even if he not weep he turn around and scratch it backward with hind leg, as if burying excrement. I say to him: ‘Donald, why do you not like my poem?’ He look at me and I recognise telepathically he say: ‘This is true poem of Basildon, which capture it cold, awful heart. And for this reason I must destroy it as like Medusa face for any living soul to read upon it would be turn to stone.’ Donald is wise and mystical cat when he speak like this.

If there is mistake in my typing here I apologise but fingers are frozen as if I am dead.