“This way looks pretty safe,” I say, marching ahead around the corner and straight into the trap: six, maybe seven Thai teenagers, eyes full of malice, fingers already on the triggers of their pistols. I freeze. Behind me, my companions are backing away, about to take their chances ducking through
“Tell me again where you’re going,” says my Nan, pouring me a Bacardi and coke with significantly more Bacardi than coke. “Your dad said something about North Korea?”
It’s Easter Sunday and the church bells are ringing over Palermo. We’re sprawled on the rooftop terrace of our apartment, watching the seagulls over the domes and palazzios and the Arab-Norman towers, the blue hills and the just-glimpsed sea. Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde is mingling with the shouts of a
In which our hero realises far too late that she may well die from a hideous bug.
In which our hero receives a less-than-thrilling first freelance offer.
In which our hero hands in her notice and then realises she has no fucking idea what happens next.