February 1st

I write to you today from the ironically named Buena Vista guest house. The only vista I can see from my window is that of Sainsbury's loading bay, but no matter – I have a room. The paint is peeling from the walls and there is a distinct aroma of dampness, but the bed is firm, the sheets reasonably clean. By the window there is a small wash basin, and by the door a table and a chair, from where I now write. In the corner, a tiny shower room with a toilet, all hidden by a grubby curtain. This slice of heaven comes at a very agreeable forty pounds a week. No questions asked, no ID required. The woman behind the counter didn't even look up at me – usually I would have taken that personally, but here I imagine it is the norm. No names, no faces.

Sixty pounds remain in my pocket. I wonder if the objectionable man who taunted me in the street this morning has missed his wallet yet? I wonder if he'll work out that it was me who took it? I do hope so.

It's late and the bed is calling me, inviting me with open arms. Tomorrow I shall bathe and eat. Tonight I only crave sleep.

February 2nd

Shopping trip. The discomfort of the whole experience was easily countered by the joy that my purchases have brought me today.

Toiletries. A bar of plain soap, toothpaste, my own toothbrush.

Clean socks, fresh t-shirts, bargain jeans. Crisp new underwear.

Digestive biscuits. Tea bags, milk and sugar.

And my luxury item – a white fluffy bathrobe. Fifteen pounds worth of cotton heaven, harsh on the budget but oh so gentle on the skin.

So, I sit here at my desk, freshly showered, wrapped in my heavenly cloud, feeling the relieving coolness of the ointment slowly seeping in to my dry and abused skin. My tea cools, rogue Digestive crumbs floating on the surface from an imperfect dunking.

Finally, it all seems worth the fight.

February 3rd

I have made a decision.

This world is clearly not going to allow me to live in anything approaching normality, and you know what - that is fine with me. If it wants me to exist in the shadows, if it wants to deny that I exist, then it may, but I will use the shadows to my advantage.

I got a buzz from stealing that man's wallet. I want that buzz again. So tonight, I intend to go out and see what else I can steal. I shall become a modern day Robin Hood, robbing from the rich to give to the poor. Namely, me.

I think I am clever enough not to get caught, but dear diary, if one day I suddenly stop making entries then so be it. Black bagging, prison, torture, death – none of it scares me - been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.

February 4th

So dear diary, I'm sure you are dying to hear what I got up to last night?

Well, nothing as epic as my rather grandiose previous entry may have implied, but I did liberate the contents of a few of Sainsbury's cash registers. And a few tasty treats from the shelves.

It was just so easy. Far easier than enduring the looks of the masses were I to try shopping in the normal way. But with cash now lining my pocket, I do need to venture into the daylight world again today. A visit to the launderette is required as the old second skin isn't at it's most fragrant any more.

…

A delight. While my laundry was spinning, I followed my nose to the fish and chip shop across the street. Battered cod and chips, with salt and vinegar. What an experience! The first thing I've ever eaten which truly made my mouth water, declaring my sense of taste truly rejuvenated. I sat on a bench, my lap filled with newspaper and hot food, largely oblivious to the disapproving looks of passers-by.

The chips were crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. The fish crumbled easily into morsels small enough to fit through the mouth of the mask. Crunchy batter, moist fish, the tang of vinegar stinging my tongue… I didn't know food like this existed.

February 5th

My scars are still healing, and while I live in this second skin for 23 hours out of every 24, there is also the matter of attending to cleanliness and moisturising.

I've already found that if I neglect the latter for more than a couple of days, I pay the price. The skin stiffens up and becomes prone to cracking, which is painful at the time and itchy when it's healing. If I don't moisturize my face and neck it can become quite uncomfortably tight, hindering speech and facial expression. It's silly really, stuck behind this mask, no-one can see whether I'm smiling or not, but the habit of moving one's face is just too deeply ingrained to stop.

The former isn't as big an issue as you'd imagine, given that I'm wearing the same bodysuit, day in and day out. It seems I can't sweat very effectively at all, something that may prove interesting come summertime.

February 6th

One cannot embark on a new career without an appropriate wardrobe. So last night I undertook a little shopping trip in the large department store several streets from here. Security was poor, as seems to be common these days. Really, they should realize that the sort of man who is happy to break into their store and steal their goods is unlikely to stay at home just because of the late night Norsefire curfew.

Starting in the gentleman's section, I filled my holdall, first with practical garments – black combat trousers, black polo necked jumpers, hooded sweatshirts, that sort of thing. A very expensive black woolen redingote rather took my fancy, so into the bag it went. I see no harm in being a dapper thief, and I must confess, it's cape-like quality rather entertains me.

The footwear department yielded a pair of combat-style boots which suit my purposes perfectly. Temporarily forgetting that I had no intention of paying for any of this, I was drawn towards a sign proclaiming '50 off all gloves'. Black leather in a couple of sizes, as I'm undecided on whether to wear them over the pressure gloves or to abandon those while I'm 'working'.

I had hoped to find a balaclava or perhaps a suitably brimmed hat that would help shadow the whiteness of my mask, but came up with nothing but another beanie and a baseball cap which really isn't me. Maybe I should paint the mask a darker colour?

My (mostly) practical shopping done, I took a wander around the rest of the store looking for things that took my fancy. Not a lot, just a few things to improve my humble abode – a small transistor radio, some books, bed linen, that sort of thing. I was wary of the need to carry my goods home without attracting attention, so vowed to come back for the rubber plant another day, satisfying my horticultural desires with a small cactus instead.

Returning home in the small hours, there was no sense in trying to sleep, the flush of criminal success leaving me quite wired. So after a cup of tea I tried on my new ensemble and regarded myself in the mirror. Dressed from head to toe in black, I feel somehow more powerful. The figure looking back at me no longer looks like the pathetic shell I sometimes feel I have become – he looks like he means business. The skin coloured pressure suit makes me look underfed, black makes me look lean. The coat makes me feel good. There's something about huge swathes of fabric that move around you that makes you feel strong, makes you stand up straight. With coat in place, beanie pulled down over the top of the mask, I dare say I look quite sinister. And for some reason, that pleases me.