Armenian Street looks beautiful in the sunny morning. Conviction had caught up with me and courage came along as I went with taxi stories. It’s ten to ten and my heart raced as though it will pump its last when the long hand touches twelve. Oh well, at least it didn’t fail me in the train on the way here. I sat on a curb in the almost empty carpark and stared at the paper that’s beginning to look very much like cabbage leaves in my hands. A yellow taxi pulled up and the driver asked me for directions to the Battle Box as two sweaty Caucasian passengers stared at me from within. Hmmm… a taxi; a fortuitous omen I hope. O Uncle, please give me your blessings today. I need to catch up with a dream detoured three years ago…
