This piece of town gave its age away by its twisty-turny street lines, and although their reason was long-forgotten I could smell the old below, and Flea employed the twisty-turns to keep us weaving through and in.
I walked away from that house doing the crowd-clearing march of the not-right, but I ran out of steam around the first corner.
This was before there were guns in the temples, when you could wander freely up and down the Nile, get off the well-trodden and into the local. When it was still the land of the pharaohs. The land of the pyramids. The land of sand in your jap's eye; an itch you couldn't scratch.