Sick Insurrection

The USSR’s economy was in decline and failing. Even tourism was being encouraged to help build up the GDP. Intourist, the official travel agency, was organising cheap holidays. 

The air hostesses, as we still called them then, were big burly women, the embodiment of the state and geared only to delivering its requirements. The state was always right. Any customer who disagreed was wrong.

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Au Revoir, Petites Rébellions

There is no such thing as a free ride, unless the ride in question is on the Paris Métropolitain.

But even then…

Sweltering, you descend underground into Laumière, shunted to and fro amidst the late-afternoon chaos. You are tethered to your petite amie by palms loosened with sweat – or loosened with something psychological, an unconscious choice. The boiling sea of heaving, sweating bodies pulsates and shifts around you, never casting the same shadow twice. Everyone has somewhere to be and nobody can spare a second of the time it takes to get there.

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It doesn’t matter. It never did. What do you know about being a rebel? Others talk about ‘real life’. This ‘real life’ we get back to after something different, something stronger. Well here I am as I live and breathe enveloped in every second and living the one I’ve got.

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Walk A Pavement Once

I don’t have time to do things twice.

I looked in the mirror; so too did my much younger partner. It was plain to her, to everyone: I’d overdosed on repetition. It was time to go cold turkey: it was time to go to Brighton.

When you live like me, in inland and inclement Scotland, Brighton appears to be a dazzling jewel. And it was. It was everything I’d read and heard about. Indeed it was more, because I - and Suzy - added another ingredient, something absent from the guide books  - something absent from all guide books - do it once.

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