I paid three hundred and twelve Euro's to see a musician on his last tour


I stood there, outside L'Olympia where the autumn varied the attire, as Claire paced the streets looking for a generous Reseller.


I help her find one; he's a little sun kissed man aggressive in nature only prepared to sell for three hundred euros. Claire thinks it’s over priced (though she can afford it). In her attempt to bargain, she succeeds only in angering him.


She soon finds another, tall and bronzed in the light. He's prepared to sell at a lower price, so we use him as collateral. In approaching the little man again, before we'd even said a word he screams, “Don't talk to me if you have no money! Three hundred or nothing!”


I'm about to ask why he's so angry, but he's screaming. “Go back to your country! Go back to Africa! People in your country don't have food! People in your country are starving! Your people have nothing!


Claire finds it all a little amusing but she has sense enough to stiffen her smile as she shouts, “You peasant!” asking me to ignore him, relieved if I should forget.


She finally buys a ticket from the more generous of the dealers and we enter side by side. We're seated close enough to hear an old poet in song hum a fine base at every stanza and count all the lines on his face. Though I never do forget.


I know my skin is a dark mahogany; it guards me from harsh light, at times placing me beside Claire other times reducing me below a dealer on the road. On grey hours it saddens me, but most days I'm rather grateful for its discipline...