We left on a ship full of tea that day. He hated the government, me those tiny England flags on cars. One such vehicle passed us on our way to the harbour, St Georges drumming in the wind. It scooted
A thick-wrapped night, where fog, like weeds, had sprung and choked Decatur Street, but for a few stray eateries; spitballs of dotted light. A figure, running like The Man was licking at its neck, a teary ribbon
The foyer of the Drury Inn is gilded, draped with chandeliers and reads like a pickled twenties ballroom. The kind of place where detectives ghost round, investigating glamorous throttlings, pouring brandy from decanters