Atishoo, atishoo, atishoo. A month of exquisite women: grey raw silk, black leather, gold jewellery. Meanwhile, all my men nurse a magnificent crush on the foreign workforce next door. Fetish tool objects left, right and centre. Along the sea path, Luljeta says, no one told me the young British were so beautiful and then she turns to Gery the next evening, stopping mid sentence to say only, you have Balkan eyes. Exactly what happens when presented with a challenge: write about something tonight or else. Your dark hair is haphazardly draped in a towel when you say, plaintively, tell me how women wrap their hair up in turbans. It’s a secret mothers pass to their daughters, isn’t it? Do I look exotic? You’re making me think of the Dutch masters and marriages of convenience in that outfit. I guess my only real aim anymore is to be so conveniently yours that it would be inconvenient for you to love anyone else. Atishoo, atishoo, atishoo. And all with eyelids coloured by a fresh pink rash, thinking about devastating women and researching all possible bestiaries, mine, Morgenstern’s or otherwise.