Our planners at Dare wanted to highlight Vodafone’s presence on Twitter. Unlike a lot of bandwagon-loving brands out there, Vodafone has a genuine relationship with Twitter, being the only mobile service provider to send tweets to your mobile (the others let you send tweets by sms but not receive them). They also have a pretty decent Twitter thread that offers customer support.

Fabi and I sat down with said planners and some wine and came up with the idea of a Twitter treasure hunt: hide goodies in Vodafone stores around the UK, twitter clues from Vodafone’s Twitter profile, and the first person to reach the right store and say the magic word wins an HTC Magic. We gave away 20 handsets throughout May. Clues were written by the lovely Nicky P.

Here’s a taster…

…The flight was uneventful, and Bob was pleased to discover that the complimentary peanuts were honey and not dry-roasted. He ordered a bloody mary, then wondered if that made him look sexually ambiguous, then thought that if he was Spanish or Italian he wouldn’t have to worry about such things. But Bob was English, and so was compelled to worry about both his appearance and his social status on a regular basis…

Read this and other stories on our story blog

An idea for Sony Ericsson Walkman phones: make Dave Grohl your puppet for a night. It’s this meets this with a little of this and a dollop of this.

Add ‘commands’ to the site using twitter, google maps or sms, and your favourite hirsute musician picks them up on his phone: befriending hobos in Soho, busking at Buckingham, or stripping at Stone Henge – you say it, he does it, we film it, and it all goes out live and online. The artists that rock your world, right under the thumb.

Not sure if my end result really did the course justice, but anyway, here’s a picture of a giant hand. It may have ended up on the skip, but the experience stayed with me.

A film to promote Dare’s 2009 grad scheme. I created this with my art director, Fabi, and editor extraordinaire, Kooch. It stars 100% genuine parents of Dare employees and was a lot of fun to make.

This is the trailer for Who is Johnny X – a campaign we created for Sony Ericsson’s new Xperia phone. It’s a 9-part thriller, perhaps closer to a piece of entertainment than a typical ad. Line-blurring is fun.

A product idea: portable door locks for special-edition Lynx packs.

The bolt uses suction cups to affix to any door and provide instant privacy, whether you’re upstairs at a party, in the stationary cupboard, or hiding in the pantry at your cousin Mervyn’s bar mitzvah.

You were asleep.

I was out in a bar in Hoxton with some people I’d just met.

You were asleep.

It was a Korova-neon techno cattle market of a bar, trying too hard to live up to the location.

One of our group was a beautiful girl and I felt my light diminish as she sucked all matter in towards her. I became lost in her atmosphere, a tiny speck, insignificant.

You were asleep.

I got a text from a man I’d met the previous weekend. He was nervous. “Have I done something to offend you?” – it read. No. He couldn’t offend me, poor thing.

Expensive cocktails so we drank plain old vodka cokes and each one came before I’d finished the last.

Dancing was impossible – the music too soulless – so we just nodded our heads like those plastic dogs you see on dashboards. Gormless fools wagging along as their home goes 90 down the A4.

You were asleep.

We went to another bar with better music and less space. Catalogue-building conversations filled with “how do you know her” and “what do you do”. The realisation that I’m going home alone.

Getting caught in the crush as I tried to leave the club – greedy bodies squished together, hoping for a taste of something beautiful. One of the bodies started talking at me: innocuous comments that I twisted into an imaginary barb, just for the hell of it. The tears were close to the surface and came easily.

You were asleep.

I ran for the night bus and stood at the top of the stairs until a seat became free. I sat down and bit my lip, welling up 40% proof. Trees and houses swept past the window in shades of navy and indigo.

My phone was out of battery. I got off the bus early and walked into the mini cab office. I gave the driver your address.

He stopped outside the flat and I let myself in with the keys that I still carry on my key ring.

I left the lights off and snuck into the living room and saw your friend passed out on the couch.

I took off my shoes and silently opened the bedroom door.

You were asleep.

I crouched down on the rug next to the foot of the bed and I curled up in a ball and I listened to you breathing. I don’t know how long I lay there.

You were asleep.

I listened to you breathing. My breaths became louder in response. I tried to speak to you in whale song. I knew I couldn’t wake you.

You were asleep.

I recognised the faint gurgling sounds of your troubled respiratory system, indifferent to my presence. It was time to leave.

I got up slowly and I opened the door slowly and I stepped into the hallway and I shut the door behind me and I did it all very slowly and quietly.

I slipped into my shoes and I padded to the front door and I stepped out into the night and it was still night and I was out on your road with no cab and no phone.

You were asleep.

I walked up the moonlit street and a black cab with no light on pulled round a corner. I hailed it down and he took me home and we went to a cash point on the way.

You were asleep.

And as I lay between the sheets in my own bed I stayed on one side and looked across at the gaping chasm where another human shape could lie but didn’t. And waves of light speckled in from where the curtains weren’t quite shut, and I knew that the impossible blackness was coming to an end.

Dawn was breaking.

You can see details of the event here

Carolina and God

Our front door is heavy and God just got out between the gap before it swung shut with a clunk and I didn’t bother to double-lock.

‘Come on God,’ I said, ‘We’re going for a walk.’

It was cold and I thought how right I’d been to wear my gloves as I left the drive, God following at my feet.

On to the street, we walked past the bus stop where there was a teenage girl waiting in a very short skirt and I felt cold looking at her and I looked away. As we walked, God started playing a game, running a few paces ahead, then waiting for me to catch up.

Everyone had told me it was a silly name for a cocker spaniel. Especially Richard. He was the worst. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling,’ he’d said, staring down at his jumper as he talked, looking for imaginary lint.

But I didn’t care. I loved my little God and I could call her whatever I wanted, and everyone else could go to hell.

We trudged along, God and I, under an upside-down carpet of cloud. She was so good, you know. She always kept up, jiggling like a belly-dancer, little legs skipping along. I would never slow down for her. Puppies may seem soft and needy, but you only need to be a little bit tough and their doughy hearts turn into the hardest diamond, flushed full of blood and stronger every day.

I’d found her at the pound 3 weeks before, and since then we’d walked a little further every day, but this would be our longest walk yet.

Richard never got home till gone seven, so we had all the time in the world. Just as I was thinking of Richard’s arrival and picturing his face, a gust of wind hit us and she whimpered.

‘Come on, you,’ I said. ‘That’s a good girl.’

We walked past the old Sunday school and the playground that reminded me of my own school, in a different town in a different time. Before perfectly-aligned cutlery and no split infinitives.

We walked past the post office with the nice Turkish lady and the old man who always smelled of soap, but we didn’t go in this time.

We walked past the furniture shop with the sign in the window that said ‘Closing down sale – FINAL DAY!’ Five years, that sign had been in the window. But this time it really felt like the final day, and for the first time in five years, I stepped inside to have a look. I milled around, pretending to look for a bargain, but there was nothing worth getting and I saw the sales man coming at me so I quickly ducked back out again with God at my heels.

Back on the street, a drop of rain fell on my hand, then one in my hair, and in a matter of seconds it was gushing down, and it was wonderful. I love the rain and so does God, so we were happy as Larry, two wet peas in a pod.

As my duffel coat became heavy with absorbed rain water I had a sudden feeling that everything was going to be ok after all. And as I thought this I heard the words in my head: everything’s going to be alright.

We walked and walked and the rain stopped and I could smell the after-rain smell and it smelt like a fresh start.

We reached the town centre and went in to the station where I thought about getting a coffee but suddenly I wasn’t remotely thirsty. So we walked up to platform 9 and here I stopped and dropped my heavy, zip-up bag to the floor, and my shoulder muscles woke up and the air danced around them. I knelt down and reached into the front pocket and got out the ‘single with animals’ ticket I’d bought a week ago and showed it to the ticket inspector.

Then I picked up my bag and we got on the train, and I put my bag in the overhead compartment. And I picked up God and held her on my lap and I thought about Richard coming home with his collar flapping and him fiddling with the key in the lock, and then coming in, and switching his work shoes for his slippers, and picking up the paper, and I wondered how long it would be before he noticed the empty wardrobe and bookless shelves and the radio gone from the kitchen.

Someone shouted ‘all aboard!’ and the train started moving and as the breeze crept in through the air vent I breathed 5 wasted years out of my lungs and I rubbed God’s back and my heart was singing.

We were going home.

Look how pretty…