The world has been transformed into millions of acres of what looks like ash. Yet it is not ash. Look closer. It is used cat litter. It is caked & often appears dry, but beneath the surface it is thoroughly soaked in all the unevaporated cat urine the world has ever known. Every so often the weight of this substance overcomes its viscosity & a whole range of hills slides into the sea. The smell is tremendous. The air is corrosive. Valleys abound, between great sloping shoulders of wet cat litter, all without vegetation or human habitat. No one knows what happened. Many of the nice things, & all the practical ones, just seemed to vanish overnight & no one could get them back & this is what was left. Across the immeasurably bleak landscape strides a young woman dressed in a tight one-piece garment of her own design. She is making her way to what used to be south east England, where the parents of some really good friends have lent her a studio in a house they own? Which used to belong to a famous Edwardian writer? There she’s going to make the internet album which will banish the shadows in her soul. At her heels trots a little tragic poppet of a whippet.