I stagger through a crowd. Why am I wearing posh trousers, a white shirt and a wonky bow tie? No jacket, though.

‘Excuse me? Where am I?’

No reply – in many languages.

‘Help.’

People give me funny looks and a wide berth. I catch my reflection in a window: I look hungover, but not as bad as I feel.

‘Señor? Vuestros amigos lo buscan.’

Amigos. The boy points. I tell him merci – the only thing I can think of.

‘Mate. Crap, you had me worried. Better bring you back safely or Sharleen’ll have me bludgeoned.’

Who’s he? And who’s Sharleen?

***

Friday Fictioneers, Story a Day, I do like to keep busy, don’t I? Add plenty to read to the list…