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.
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?