His mind and his blood burn hot...

It starts to rain. At 6pm in the winter it is already dark and often bitterly cold. There's a guy in Marks & Spencer's doorway, greasy and huddled in a mess of blankets. They all see him there every day. He asks them for money. Some of them oblige, most of them ignore him. Some tell him that they are sorry. His mind and his blood burn hotter with every hour that passes until he can make up the money to earn a 75cl bottle from the off-licence over the road.

It's Friday night. Around the corner there's a bar that is famed for it's atmosphere. Lively, friendly, fun. A good glass of whatever it is that you like. City traders, weekend ravers, office workers, construction workers - everyone drinks there, but social boundaries are only broken when sex is involved. A man breaks away from his friends to buy a £150 bottle of champagne for a woman who has been drinking Bacardi Breezers. She is impressed with his money and his dynamism, he is impressed at her looks and her openness. He will take her home, and then they will never speak again.

On La Ramblas, a mixed group of EasyJet revellers grate the peace of evening with innane chanting and obnoxious shouting. A young Spanish couple walks past them. The boy feels nervous, the girl feels disgust. Chanting and shouting, they trample Barcelona.

Four middle-class Guardian reading couples sit eating lobster in an expansive suburban home. Greg opens a 1990 Château Latour, the conversation turns from knife-crime to Dutch care-homes. Everyone has somthing to say. Some of them learn something, others refuse to be wrong. Greg comes on to Alun's wife in the kitchen. She refuses him and in the morning he laughs about it, privately. It was a good evening.

A twelve year old boy smokes a cigarette and waits outside an off-licence for some eighteen year old passer-by to come out carrying eight cans of Stella Artois.