I am looking at an electrical cupboard. Above it is a tray to catch drips from a possibly leaking vault. A pipe descends from the tray to the floor. The floor is periodically inspected to see if it’s wet, which would mean that the vault is indeed leaking. The arrangement, given that water and electricity are known to mix badly, looks precarious.
In every direction stretch uncountable kilometres of wires and pipes, fronds of high-voltage cables, a Terry Gilliam cosmos of whistling and buzzing devices, vapour, puddles, stifling heat, gaffer tape, silver foil, warning signs, conduits, refrigerating units and extractor fans, long lengths of tubing that are – literally – rat runs. There are old paint tins to catch more drips, plastic bins full of used coffee cups, cardboard boxes, discarded cable trays, retired office chairs. There is a Victorian, steam-powered sewage ejector. There is asbestos.
