It was a scene that dripped comedy. A thin, icy drizzle with no sense of direction slouched across a spacious driveway. I stood at the front door, martini in hand, a half gnawed olive sulking in the bottom of the glass; hungover, out of work, impaled and unshaven. The olive I mean, not me. A still and gloomy midnight it was, punctuated only by the quiet, rhythmic hum of the garage door sliding indignantly open as the Malawian house-boy helped himself to a Mercedes from the motorpool with plans for a large night out.
“Quelle Bon Surprise!” I muttered to no one in particular as I watched him fumbling with German engineering that is often tricky to negotiate with the benefit of light, and familiarity, …
