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February 24, 2008
February in Victoria - shivering as I race down the pier, the radio squawking at my hip. My April fool, slumped between two shipmates’ shoulders like a frosty crucifix – your failed experiment with La Fee Verte.

Where was I the day the Pope died? I was with you, stealing wormwood from Monticello’s gardens. That plush Williamsburg hotel, the redoubts snaking across the lawns.

You, my literary tequila hangover. Me, the tragic turtle tattooed on your arm. Like that icy night on the pier in Victoria - I would never wish to relive it, but it makes for one hell of a story.