Myself and my colleague Natasha are squatted on her studio floor beside open curtains looking at the nighttime lives of others. Safely in darkness, to ensure our scantily dressed shapes aren’t silhouetted to the outside [more…]
“Beau Peeper? Classy. From some kind of top-shelf magazine one hears about? The things you do for Queen and country, Worth.” I’m showing Natasha my exhibit ‘A’, a newspaper cutting I hope will persuade her [more…]
Miss Williams’s accommodations resembled a hotel room rather than an apartment, and a middle-market one at that. Its attraction was location, location, location rather than size, furnishings and decor. That location was the seventh floor [more…]
April 1984 suffered its share of chill winds, further proof that the final quarter of the 20th century drew towards an ice age. But the clocks never struck thirteen and the masses making their way [more…]
‘Harry’ Lee Kuan Yew was born in 1923 into a comfortably off Straits family, resident in the Reservoir Road area of Singapore. His father was a Shell Oil company executive, his mother the author or [more…]
By the time I’d returned to my room, paddling up the dripping steps, Emile had curled up on her end of my bed and had fallen asleep. Wept herself to sleep even, after overhearing me [more…]
Our night of espionage, from my modest accommodations near to the notorious wall at Tangiers docks, had been cancelled. A much reduced number of comings and goings would pass unnoticed. The Gods of weather were [more…]
Myself and my duplicitous American colleague, Tammy, are in Tangiers. Becoming a familiar sight about the port, we are starting to attract the attention of a Tangier set. A semi-anonymous caller, passing as a ‘Mr [more…]
I’m on the rooftop of my cheap hotel in Tangiers. I have escorted the duplicitous Miss Tammy back to the luxurious Royal Maroc, after another night photographing the notorious comings and goings at the Port [more…]
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