Monday 17 March

Honduran Joe settles upon my upper window, then plops down beside me in bed, sun-scorched feathers awry. With sleepy eyes barely able to focus I presume he's snaffled a herbal cigarette-end but no, he begins to relay the story of an epic journey back from South America, full of bandits at twelve o'clock and improvised Mojitos on long-forgotten islands. He has encountered Daisy in a remote village in the southern Argentine, full of travelers and Bohemians, nestled between imposing glaciers that were just, like, amazing- 'So you are stoned?' I yell in fury, flinging Joe across the bed deck, before panic sets in and I'm attempting resuscitation with thimblefuls of coffee, cooing soft apologies all the while. It is Sanchez who manages to extract the full story - though why it should cost me twelve thimblefuls of good rum is another matter: Daisy's return is imminent. 'We always get what we want, just not when we want it,' I expect some future novelist will write (probably French). And do I really want Daisy back in Manchester, so long after my last chance has gone? With her new tan, her new man, her grasp of Hindustan? Of course I do. Any sunshine in the city right now is only to be welcomed.

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