Perhaps I would like a glass of whisky. Yes, that seems more likely.

Vendors still shivering in the still-cool air gathered around me, pushing their wares-chewing gum, biscuits, baby rattles, cigarettes, sold individually or by the pack. I didn't want anything, but they kept standing there; they had nothing else to do. A white man is such an anomaly, a foundling from another planet, that is it possible to stare at him with interest almost forever.

We hang here, inquisitive carbon-based life forms, knowing that every atom of carbon now in our bodies was once in the interior of a star.

Written By James Hamilton-Paterson

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