It's night and myself and a policeman are leaning against a front garden wall, my crewmate is in the ambulance cab doing some paperwork. If this were a TV drama one of us would be casually smoking a cigarette in order to show the audience how cynical and hardened we are.
We are outside a squat, opposite a school. The windows are boarded up and so was the door, but the people living inside managed to pry them off and sneak some mattresses into the building.
There were two people living inside, now there is only one.
He was found on the floor, laying on his mattress, nothing else in the room apart from a small vial of what appeared to be drugs.
The room is freezing and there is no electricity for lights. The other man who lives in the house called us because he found his friend unconscious and not breathing.
When we got there it was obvious that he had been dead quite some time.
It looks like a drug death, although I can't see any of the paraphernalia that goes with it, only the small vial with tiny little rocks in it. Is his pipe in his pocket, or did his friend remove it from the scene.
His friend speaks only a little English, and he can't even tell me the name of the dead man, only that he was his friend and that they would sometimes go drinking.
More police arrive to check to see if there is anything suspicious, we all greet each other. Like the friend and the dead man, we know each other's faces, but not the names.
Our job is easy, we turn up, recognise that the person is dead and then do an impression of a CSI and tell the police if we think it is a 'suspicious' death or not. I'm sure that in most cases they only ask out of politeness.
I'm waiting for my crewmate to finish writing, so I lean on the wall and talk to the police and I look at the schoolyard.
And I think – will any of the children that go to that school grow up to this? Will they reach their twenties and die in a squat, in filth, in squalor – dead from heroin, or crack, or something new?
I think of our dead man, once upon a time he was a schoolboy, his future stretching out in front of him – what would they say if I could travel in time and tell him, his teachers, his parents, of the way in which he dies. Would they believe me? Would he still make the same choices that lead him to becoming a cold lump of meat on the floor of an unlit squat?
Will the children who will be playing in that schoolyard in a few hours time ever know of the man who died here? Will the parents who drop off their children, full of hope for their future, ever realise how close the world of drugs and death came to impacting on their school run?
I'll never know the answer to those questions, and even if I did it wouldn't change what has happened – a sad, lonely death. The only witnesses after the fact being anonymous strangers who are paid to care and a drinking friend who didn't even know his name.
Thankfully the election is over and I can start blogging properly again – the official advice was to stop blogging during the campaign.
A busy week this week, and by the end of it I'll be able to reveal one of the things I've been up to.