I'll Tell You My Sins...*

This post started with an earworm.

I'd first heard this haunting song played through the speakers at the gym a few times, and never managed to identify it through the means of Shazam or SoundHound as I usually leave my phone in the lockers and make do with my trusty iPod, listening to podcasts, and, sometimes wanting to be more individualistic, trying to do squats to Miles Davies, or in moments of angst, working out to more melancholic melodies, the likes of James Blake whose rhythm adds a certain difficulty in trying to achieve a graceful lunge and therefore an added challenge to the whole routine.

Fast forward a few weeks, and there was a viral video on Facebook, depicting at first glance a seemingly naked man in a greenhouse, writhing about on the polished wooden floors. When I clicked "play", I started to be transfixed by the graceful movements of the ballet dancer, who was actually wearing skin-tone tights. After a short while, I realised the melody he was dancing to was the same song which I'd heard a few times in the gym.

After the video ended, I headed to the pool and searched online for the original version on my phone, and discovered the video which upset me to no end, and proceeded to watch it on a loop until the anger and exhaustion of the lyrics sunk in. After that I scoured various sites to read more about the song, and while it was sunny, under the midday sun I felt cold over the comments from readers over the video. More to the point, the video itself portrayed diametric opposites of immense love, and innane hate which in this day and age, is all too real, and which for the most part I feel incredibly lucky to have not been subject to much. 

Now, I am not usually wont to write about heavy-handed topics which attract unsavory comments and debate, as I often find myself flustered when trying to simultaneously searching for facts in my mind while trying to defend my own position and argument, and ending up tongue-tied and frustrated over the ignorance of the opposition. However, like a previous post on domestic abuse which later in sobriety, left me cringing over the fact that I'd tweeted a number of celebrities asking them to spread the message, the subject matter of the video leaves me in no doubt about my position on this: homophobia.

A few days ago I side-stepped the relative comfort of punchy Twitter to post a link to a short film and a heartfelt missive directly on my Facebook page which went beyond 140 characters. This was a viral video in China that reached out to the LGBTQIA+ community, and left me in tears at the end. In the closing credits, the Chinese mothers of the LGBTQIA+ individuals call out in supportive tones to the community and others to "come home" to the family, as it was during the Lunar New Year celebrations. Their snippets of support and verbal embraces were heartwarming, but underneath their calm manner you could see the struggle for answers and explanations. The ability to provide a satisfactory answer is nigh on impossible, because what parent can accept that the child that they have so lovingly nourished and brought up, despite all the attention and love, has deviated from their well-laid plans of becoming a (successful) individual, in tow with a partner of the opposite sex, and who will give them grandchildren to bounce proudly in the faces of their own friends and to proclaim said child's filial piety and conformance to societal norm?

This is further compounded by the fact that "being gay" is seen as a relatively new trend (despite historical evidence across cultures that is constantly disputed), as LGBTQIA+ individuals born in the 80s and beyond start to throw off the shackles that have been previously attached to them. From the damning proclamation of Queen Victoria's support of the Labouchere Amendment on gross indencency (which was later adopted into the constitution of Commonwealth States, and in some cases still remains), to the atrociously named Gay Cancer plague of the 1970s (now known as HIV/AIDS), it is no wonder that homosexuals born in this period had sought to cover up their natural human instinct to be attracted to and/or love another of same sex/similar being. This is further compounded by religion taking the LGBTQIA+ movement's name in vain, further denouncing immorality in the "prescribed" natural order of things. The result is that many of our fore-bearers had, and even many of our generation have to live a lie, living in constant fear of societal expulsion, and generating more issues from unhappy family units to STD epidemics in the meantime. [On a separate note, I was humbled by an article over an article on the altruism of lesbians towards gay men in the 80s AIDS epidemic, despite the ongoing misogyny that gay men exhibit. Article can be found here]

Back to the discussion at hand: my generation by no means has it easy, but somehow we are no longer satisfied of living a lie in order to fit ourselves into outdated pigeonholes which have been crafted through years of ignorance. Therefore, our voices proclaiming individuality and independence is seen as an attack on generations of constructed coherence, divergence from societal norms, and the "shameful" fulfilling of what are essentially natural desires. Through our constant battle to throw off stereotypes that we are cast with, we learn to be stronger, and we learn to accept ourselves as well as others, and build upon the universal knowledge of love. We gradually learn that saying that we are born this way isn't enough, and struggle to cite academic articles, arguments against religious texts, and identify LGBTQIA+ role models who are accepted in mainstream media as reasons in expressing ourselves. 

However, this only further fuels the debate in having to justify ourselves in what we are. Through the years of repression, we are now finding our voices but are reduced to a construct of rational scientific argument in explaining why we are the persons we are. It's not sufficient to merely say that we are born this way, as we do not outwardly project any defining marker that automatically makes it understandable. It is laborious to draw upon the visible birthrights, but ultimately we bear a burden that sex and race cannot convey to the naked eye in being able to safely label oneself whether positively or negatively which still runs rife despite advances in time (cf:misogyny, racial issues).

While I have had it easier than most, I know that my parents still struggle to reconcile themselves with what they perceive "went wrong". This is compounded by their new-born status into the Church, and struggle internally to accept me for who I am. I could respond caustically, and hurt them and drive home more doubt about their individual ability in raising me, but what would that achieve? The only way can I deal with it is to be unflinching in knowing the acceptance of myself is key, and through dialogue in establishing that its a case of "it's not you, and it's not me". I now realise over time that their love is unconditional, but it is their Pavlovian conditioning heaped upon them for their need to fit in comfortably with their peers, reflected in so many others, which hinders them from being to see clearly that despite being different, we are still human beings with the ability to love other humans and each other unconditionally.

Homophobia exists in many forms: from snide comments at school being dished out from kids who are fed knowledge of the world by their ignorant parents; in the workplace where ostracism through lack of career progression and peer acceptance where more schoolyard bullying tactics occur; to active violence towards individuals or groups who have decided not to hide their true nature: the list is immense when it comes to examples. I have experienced some, apart from the last, and its only by sheer force of will that I have been able to play most situations to my benefit. It is routinely soul destroying that while we are brought up to believe that "Love Conquers All", the message of hate is the one that spreads like wildfire and inflicts immediate damage throughout.

At the end of the video in Coming Home, the mothers tell their kids and others in the community to return to their cradle, because the overriding message despite the turmoils, is one of love. So why is it such a difficult argument to make that an individual born into love, that has an unyielding capacity to love, is no different than another despite differences instilled by generational misunderstanding?

So, the next time you look at someone muttering in tattered garb that looks menacing, or bumping into that shrill person who calls you an idiot for ruining their day, before you glare and make a snap judgement, look into your heart to find the understanding to cast love, and disperse the prejudice which we we are prone to. 

*Title courtesy of Hozier

On the despair of youth

There are so many things to write about in life, but somehow in the last 18 months life itself got in the way, and I left blogging to the verbose, and decided to try and convey experiences through the medium of 140 characters or less. 

Then, one evening, while drunkenly deciding to reorganise the study, I decided it was also time to weed through the boxes of stuff that I'd accumulated over the last 15 years. There were boxes of postcards, hoarded through drunken pub crawls in my youth. There were rolls of film and photographs back from the days when film still existed as a proper medium, and not some hipster reincarnation. Then, there was a jar of petrified wasabi, nicked from a night out with a friend during the kleptomaniac phase of (again, drunken) youth. During that same time, I'd also accumulated enough bulldog clips and other stationery cupboard paraphernalia to last me, and any new business, a lifetime and a half.

However, there was one box of memories that I hesitated on once the lid was lifted. Diaries of inane meeting notes, reams of coloured paper (also courtesy of the stationery cupboard), and a journal. This was, in hindsight, a pathetic attempt at a scrapbook. Stuck in it were receipts from travels, stubs from museums, and aspirational pencil sketches conveying the "artistic impressions" of my deluded self. This included a rendering of the Shanghai Pearl Tower, which looks like a skewer of meat balls, and an attempt of the Venus de Milo: if it was drawn by a 5 year old with no digits. Actually, a 5 year old with no digits would be better. My absolute shame remains the "freestyle" smudged sketch of Stonehenge which looks like it was built using twisty marshmallows and "artful" gothic script reminding myself of what it actually was meant to be. 

Note the pensive Snowman and "spirit" giving my younger self the side-eye. Also, I just realised that the dangly eye in the top right is actually supposed to be what Stonehenge would be like if the Chinese we're to hang talismans by it.

Said journal also contained a number of angst ridden entries, which reading through them made me cringe desperately. I want my current self to be able to tell my younger self that the future is much brighter than I had envisioned. I want to tell my younger self that frustration isn't exclusively mine to bear. I want to tell my younger self that my attempt at deep, meaningful poetry is best left to those who can actually write poetry. Most of all, I want to tell my younger self that love, once lost, will be found again. 

At this point, I could no longer shoulder the burden of all this angst anymore. I had to share it with someone. So, naturally I picked up the phone at 5 in the morning and dialed my best friend 12 timezones away on the other side of the world, knowing she'd be the one to understand all the emotions coursing through my veins at that moment (to be honest, it was because I knew she would be awake, and it was probably the whisky coursing through my veins, but that's beside the point).

She picked up, and I ranted. She, in turn, found some of her old journal entries, and together, we read them aloud to each other. We laughed, we sneered at our younger selves, then we made a promise to start blogging again. 

So, while I start combing through experiences to post anew, I leave you with my last entry in the journal. (Disclaimer: I am not responsible for you choking, gagging, or reacting in any way to the following paragraph)

"Dear XXX, sometimes it seems sensible to lay pen to paper and let flow all that is cooped up within. However, at these times things seem most unclear and I am in turmoil. From my work struggles to my relationships, nothing seems clear to be on their way to resolving themselves. [He] is unhappy, yet I cannot find the strength within me to champion what seems to him a lost cause. I am a jinx to those I love, and to those who are dear to me. Stem this flow of unhappiness, and unleash the positive vibes that exist there in the universe. Namaste."

Hasta la vista, Readers.

Someone like who?

I started thinking of the past when I first heard this, and missed opportunities, but however much I tried to lament, I couldn't. That is because I don't have to find someone like you, because OH, I have you...

Baby its not so cold outside...

OH got back from a work trip the other day and brought with him the box set of Glee, Season 2. We're totally hooked on it, OH obsessively so.

Anyway, after Season 1, we were left wondering what would happen to Kurt, the openly gay character, and it turns out he features a lot more in Season 2. Just as an insight, here he is with Blaine, the other new gay character, doing a wonderful duet.

And just so you know, Blaine, I so would.

How did we end up like this? (pt. 4)

We walk to the pub hand in hand. I’m painfully aware that some glances are thrown our way but he seems to be oblivious to it. He’s joking with me, light hearted comments, friendly jibes. I’ve got my heart caught in my throat and can only make monosyllabic replies, nodding nervously.

Finally we arrive at our destination. It is quiet with only another table of punters. I find a table in a corner while he heads off to the bar and returns with 2 pints and a packet of crisps. He starts talking earnestly.

He tells me between sips and crisps that he’d always felt in awe of me. I was running around the world, closing deals worth millions. He’d been writing music, hoping for a lucky break. Despite the differences we’d kept in touch, I’d attended his every gig, he’d be there for my birthday bashes and dinner parties. I look him in the eye and tell him that he’s kept me enthralled despite all the fuck ups. He laughs at me, and sneaks a kiss.

The door opens and we look up. It’s Estella. She looks over and sees us, a barely perceptible frown before her trademark toothy smile.

‘Hi, didn’t expect you here.’ She says she’s waiting for a friend. He offers her a seat and she takes it. We exchange kisses and discuss the previous night’s gig again. After a bit he stands up asks us if we want more drinks as he’s heading to the toilet. I hand him some money as it’s my round, and we put in our order. As soon as he’s out of earshot Estella turns to me.

‘I saw you both last night,’ she begins, ‘I saw you kissing.’ It’s a statement, not a question. In clipped sentences, she reveals that they’d both started sleeping together a few months back and she’d fallen for him. She ends by saying ‘It’s just that I could never imagine competing with someone of the opposite sex.’

He returns a couple of minutes later with three drinks and another packet of crisps. He hands me the change and drops some coins on the table. He sits down and caresses my knee. At this I stiffen in my seat and make my excuses that I need the toilet.

In the bathroom I turn on the cold tap and splash water on my face. How could I be so stupid not to have read her body language towards him? Could I reconcile myself with all this? He’d always been impulsive, but had he thought this through? The image he’d be saddled with; everything was happening too fast.

I open the door of the bathroom and wonder what to do, with the knowledge that any action I take would result in someone being hurt. My eye catches a fire escape door. It’s unbolted and ajar. Thankful I’d kept my coat on, I step through the doorway and into the night.

I've been hurt before, I know how to deal with it.

***

(Three years later)

I’m in a cafe and I’ve just sat down at a table with a precariously balanced cup on an oddly shaped saucer. As I open my laptop and wait for it to fire up, I look up and am surprised to see him at the counter. He waves and approaches me, a shy smile, that shy smile. I invite him to sit down, close the laptop and put it away. The conversation starts out stacatto, but eventually we settle into our old banter pattern. We talk for a long time. I ask him about Estella and he tells me that ended it that night we were in the pub. He apologises for not telling me sooner, tells me he meant to break it off with her before, how he was now honest with himself, how he’s missed me since that night but never had the courage to call, believing that he’d screwed up.

Coffee turns into a beer, and the afternoon turns into night as we catch up over the last three years. Soon the bars are closing and we’re standing at the doorway, shifting uncomfortably, not knowing how to pick up where we left off. He invites me back to his for another drink, and I accept. We walk through the streets and the city shuts down bit by bit. Soon, we’re back at one end of the park near where he lives, and he suggests a detour. We walk through the park and we happen upon the spot where we’d faux wrestled in the leaves three years previously. He turns to me.

‘I want to make this right this time,’ he says, and kisses me. His lips, his touch, his smell: tobacco, late summer, the cologne I’d bought him, a hint of beer.

The night is spent talking, touching, kissing, making up for lost time.

Next morning, I get up to leave. He reaches out across the bed and grabs me in a hug. We kiss. It feels good.

‘Call me later,’ he says.

I don’t know why, but I never do.

***

(Another four years later...)

I open up the large pack of forwarded post. I sift through the bills and flyers when a cream envelope catches my eye. I discard the rest on to the table and place the envelope on the side and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit down and look at the envelope, my old address scrawled in his unmistakable hand.

I catch my breath as I open the envelope. The postmark indicates last Monday’s date. Out falls a wedding invitation. I read through the invite; it’s taking place in 2 months. He’s marrying someone rather well known. I struggle to comprehend what they’d have in common, why he’d do this.

I turn the invite over. He’s written something on it.

Please be my reason to say no. 07xxx-xxx-xxx

I take a large gulp of wine and light a cigarette. I tear the invitation into little pieces and deposit it in the composting bin that’s filled with vegetable peelings and other organic matter.

I cry silently in bed that night.

***

This morning I wake up and sit on the edge of bed, gathering my senses before I head to the bathroom for a shower. The boyfriend rolls over and reaches out to me for a hug and I oblige. He whispers to me, half asleep, ‘I love you,’

I get up and have a shower. Later I’m on my way to work with a coffee in one hand, my mobile in the other. I scroll down to his name and number and look at it for a while. He’s getting married today; I’m tempted to press the dial button to hear his voice, to wish him well.

Instead, I hit delete.

Enough now, I tell myself, enough.

How did we end up like this? (pt. 3)

The breeze picks up to a strong wind and whips the leaves on the pavement into a frenzy. We head into the park, a longer route to the pub since we decide the need to walk a bit before deserving of a few pints.

Dusk is settling in early as daylight saving has kicked in the week before. A couple of dogs and their owners are walking through the park, their paths cross and they sniff each other intently. He laughs at the spectacle when one of the dogs, a Golden Retriever looks over and cocks its head. A few moments later the Retriever has lost interest in the other dog, a poodle, and scrambles over to the foot of a tree.

We carry on walking and suddenly, the park lights come on. The wind has died down, and the topic of conversation shifts from assignments to mutual friends. I start kicking the settled leaves and skip through a pile of them. Without warning, I’m tackled from the side and I find myself winded as I collapse into the leaves and onto the ground. I hear him laughing as he approaches, and I see him with an armful of leaves scooped off the ground. He throws them over me as I’m lying there, spread out, playing dead.

I kick out as he laughs again and he lets out a yelp of pain. I must have aimed right and struck him. Moments later I feel a thud beside me as he falls into the leaves, gripping his shin.

‘Ouch!’ he cries out, and I laugh, still semi-covered in leaves. I try and brush the leaves off my face; they’re slightly damp and I can feel the moisture on my face. Still lying there, I get a fit of the giggles and start to laugh uncontrollably. Suddenly he turns over and straddles me, I put up my arms to push him off but he’s quicker than I am and grabs both my wrists. Pinning me to the ground, he leans in and kisses me.

This time I don’t hesitate: I kiss back. It is soft and lingering, tentative, unknowing of the boundary we have just stepped over by this reciprocated embrace. I catch his scent: tobacco, Acqua di Parma cologne (a birthday present I got him a few months back), wet leaves, damp ground. The kiss seems like an eternity, and I want to be lost in it.

Nearby, a set of church bells sounds out. 4 pm. The spell is broken. He looks down at me, smiling that smile. He leans in to peck me on the forehead, gets up, then holds out a hand to help me up. I take his hand and he pulls me up. I stand level with him and watch him grinning as he picks stray leaves out of my hair.

I’m confused about this. I thought we were just friends. What do I do now? Can I touch him? Can I kiss him? Why is he being so intimate? I want answers, I want clarification. I have been in love with the idea of him for such a long time I’m not sure if I’m dreaming it. The straight man and the gay friend, standing in the middle of a darkened park, electric intimacy charging the atmosphere around us. He kisses me again.

‘I told you I was drunk last night,’ he begins as we continue walking at a slow pace, he takes a deep breath, ‘I was drunk last night but I knew what I was doing. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t fully coherent when I chose the moment.’ He reaches out to hold my hand, and I accept shyly. It feels nice and warm, and it feels that all my Christmases have come at once.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt. 2)

The shrill electronic beeping of my phone wakes me from the dreamless sleep that I fell into as soon as I got home. I turn over, pick up the phone and the ringing stops. I look and see that its 10am; I've only had 4 hours of sleep. Grabbing the glass by the side of my bed, I take a big gulp of water. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes and head into the bathroom for a shower.

10 minutes later I'm standing in my room naked, choosing a T-shirt from the pile of unfolded laundry in the corner. My phone alerts me to a text message. I pull on my jeans and sit on the bed, flies still unbuttoned as I grab my phone and check the message.

I'm feeling like death. Come over?

I smile despite myself, and finish dressing. I type back: On my way. Breakfast?

Almost immediately: Hair of the dog.

Soon I'm standing in his kitchen, mixing up some bloody marys and stirring up some scrambled eggs. I've done this hundreds of times, always at his beck and call, playing the role of the caring friend, never expecting anything in return. This time however my heart is racing as I don't know what to expect from him after the events of last night.

He comes into the kitchen, freshly washed, in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, even though he looks rough with bloodshot eyes. He comes up beside me and turns the heat under the pan of eggs off, grabs the tops of my arms and turns me towards him. He looks into my eyes for a while, searching, then envelops me in a big hug.

'Sorry I got so wasted, mate," he says to me, still hugging. I tentatively pat him on the back, remembering the feel of his lips and disappointed it was only a drunken kiss. I smell him: tobacco, fresh laundry, mint shower gel. He pushes me away, looks at me and smiles that smile again. 'Let's eat, I'm ravenous!' The silence is broken as he grabs plates off the draining board and grabs the toast from the toaster on the way. I pick up the pan, pop it onto a tray and load the bloody marys onto it and head into the other room. The TV turned on, we eat and watch the news. War, suffering, politics, a music channel, the banal shopping TV selling crap, a comedy from the early 90's. He points the remote at the TV, turns it off, and aims another remote at the hi-fi and some music comes on instead as plates are stacked back on to the tray.

'Man, I wish I could sing this beautifully,' he says, slouched on the sofa. Summertime is playing, a duet by Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong. Its approaching winter outside, the leaves are falling as the wind shakes them from the branches. We discuss the previous night's performance, and the reaction of the crowds. He's still riding on the wave of euphoria and I smile at the passion in which he relives the performance. A couple of hours pass as we're just slumped there, chilling out with an eclectic array of music from his extensive library playing as a soundtrack to our banter.

Soon we decide that a walk would do us some good, and we decide to head for the pub to have a few pints by the old fireplace available, along with a few cigarettes. He heads into his room to get a jumper and a jacket. I casually loop my scarf on as he comes back. I turn to grab my jacket and suddenly feel him grabbing my waist and turning me back to face him.

'Hey, I was drunk last night,' he says to me, winking, still holding on to me. The straight man with the gay friend, the balance of power clearly in his favour as we're standing too close to each other for normal, friendly comfort. My heart is pounding.

'I... I know,' I stammer, unsure of what is going on.

'Friends?' He looks at me, that puppy-dog look.

'Sure,' I reply. I throw in a wink which I hope looks cheeky for good measure. He lets go of me.

We head out of the door.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt.1)

I remember it well: A new shirt, light blue and white stripes, tailored in the manner of a dress shirt. Paired with dark jeans and some vintage (well, second hand really) cowboy boots, I looked the part. After all, I was making an effort for him since I was there in support.

Fast forward.

It was a roaring success. The crowds went wild, and they performed another two encores. Soon it had to end as the next act was about to come on. The headliners may have been divas, but they were professional and kept good time on their scheduled appearances. I went round to the back and waved at Mac, the security guy. A curt nod and a hint of a grin, he let me through. The band were high-fiving each other, the atmosphere electrically euphoric that even I started to feel like I was on speed. Some groupies were hanging around, cigarettes dangling from their lips and passing the different bottles of spirits around after taking a swig.

Then, the group parted and he was there with his arm around Estella, the other clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels, grinning and shaking his head in disbelief at the gig he'd just played. Spotting me, he turns to peck Estella on the cheek and untangles himself, walks over and gives me a long hug.

'Thanks so much for being here, mate. You have no idea how happy I am to see you,' I give him a half hug back. As he holds on, I catch a waft of him: sweat, tobacco, whiskey and the odd scent of hair pomade thrown in for good measure. After he releases me, the troops are rounded up and we pile into a club a few streets away.

Much later, I'm taking a break from the loud music and mass of gyrating bodies. I head outside and take a sip on a coke, fumbling for my cigarettes. The pack is slightly squashed and the fag I manage to extract is misshapen. Straightening it out, I hold it between my lips while I pat down my pockets to find my lighter. I hear a 'click' and look up, he's holding out a lighter to me, the flame dancing precariously in the night breeze. Its my lighter.

'You left this inside. Thought you might need it,' he grins as I lean in to light my cigarette. 'Mind if I have one?' I hand the pack to him and he fumbles drunkenly so I help him and pull one out, straighten it, and spark the lighter for him. He takes long drag, then puts an arm around me and says he wants to walk up to the concert arena.

We stumble back along the few streets where we started out from. There are street cleaners with their vehicles sweeping up the debris left behind by the crowd that were queueing to get in. The crunch of broken glass, the swish of the brooms, the whiring of the high-pressured water jet. We talk about nothing in particular and by the time we walk round to the front, the billboard lights are still on, flickering. One arm still around me, he points at the band's name up there and giggles with childish delight. Turning to face me, he tries to look serious but its proving difficult after the amount he's had to drink.

'I did this for you,' he slurs. I take a deep breath and look at him quizzically. 'Now, with this, am I good enough?' I am caught unawares. I never thought that he'd feel this way. For me, being his friend was enough despite knowing our worlds were diametric opposites. I refocus and look at him, and he leans in to kiss me. For a few moments I don't know how to react as his lips are searching, his tongue gently probing, then I reciprocate. I taste him, the cigarette smoke, the whiskey, the bitter, numbing traces of the cocaine they'd been doing.

A few minutes later he stiffens and pushes me away. My mind is in a whir. Maybe he's realised he's made a mistake, but then I see the unmistakable flinch indicating nausea. Just, but only just, he swings away and vomits. Some of it hits the pavement, splatters onto my jeans and the second hand shoes. He's bent over, and I pat him on the back to try and ease the ordeal. When he's finished, I flag a taxi and manage to bundle him in and get him home. It's a bit more challenging when we arrive as he's almost comatose. I manage, and soon he's in bed. Heading to the bathroom, I sponge off the bits of sick on me. I leave a note on the table and step out into the cold night.

'Am I good enough now?' his words ring in my head. A smile is playing on the corner of my lips as I light up another cigarette. My mobile phone goes off. It is my boss who is abroad and wants to know if I've done the due diligence on the American company we're expecting to do a big sales deal with.

With a sigh, I give him the information and end the conversation. I walk home through the quiet, leafy streets. The birds are stirring.

(To be continued...)