Syd is 25 now, and worried about getting old. ‘I wasn’t always this introverted,’ he says, ‘I think young people should have a lot of fun. But I never seem to have any.’ Suddenly he points out the window. ‘Have you seen the roses? There’s a whole lot of colours.’ Syd says he doesn’t take acid anymore, but he doesn’t want to talk about it… ‘There’s really nothing to say.’ He goes into the garden and stretches out on an old wooden seat. ‘Once you’re into something…’ he says, looking very puzzled. He stops. ‘I don’t think I’m easy to talk about. I’ve got a very irregular head. And I’m not anything that you think I am anyway.’
