It was a sunny morning but there was a sharp December chill in the air as I walked briskly up Kingsway among the rush-hour pedestrians. My faithful German boy-servant Capable Hans was beside me, skipping a little to keep up with my stride. I had partaken of a little too much Old Watkin's Tubthumper the previous evening, and my condition must have been obvious because, entirely unbidden, Hans slowed briefly to hover by a news stand, and then expertly removed a can of Dr Fizzy on my behalf while the stallkeeper's attention was elsewhere.
'Now less sugar' the can said. And less flavour, it became apparent. 'Can you handle the taste?' the can asked. I was more than capable of doing so.
Up ahead was an student from the arts college, baseball cap set high on his ginger afro and his skinny trousers so tight that the movement of his legs was constricted. As I overtook him I seemed to catch him winking at Hans, but Hans appeared not to notice. I was about to comment, but we had arrived at the door to my office.
It was an inconspicuous and dusty teak double door, set back slightly from the street, in a grey granite block of a building. There was, from the outside, no indication as to what went on within.
(to be continued)
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