Distinguished people and celebrities are mysteriously rendered to desert islands. There is no mention of an electricity supply, nor a sun lounger. Playing even one of their favourite records would be as fanciful as finding the tenacity to luxuriate in the Bible or Shakespeare.

Being marooned on Concrete Island is plausible – potentially imminent. Your vehicle punctures at high speed – or pehaps you swerve to avoid the erratic driving of a fellow motorist. Out of control, you smash through the guard rail, plunge down a steep bank of mud, and find yourself immured in a triangular pit beneath precipitous concrete: the urban motorway intersection. Despite a broken leg and punctured lung, you plan your escape; but – having read JG Ballard’s book – you know it is hopeless. You have six bottles of white burgundy in the boot. You’ve downloaded six pieces of music to your phone in anticipation of this moment.

Photograph made on Iflord HP5 5x4 sheet film in 2011.