SUNDAY BREAKFAST (In my dreams)

That it was the Beltane morning-after made no difference. Her greeting was a typically hostile tossed gauntlet. “You know fiction’s dead, don’t you, old man?” The hotel bar was still officially closed but she had talked her way past the day manager and was already waiting for me. “I suppose, after last night, you want a Bloody Mary?” To which, in my imagination, I could only reply that what I really wanted was greasy food and a Coca Cola, but a drink certainly wouldn’t go amiss. Or maybe three.

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The secret word is Tabasco