I imagine them singing: We know where you’re going, we know where you’re going!’ I get a grip of myself. I get closer to my dirty destination. M... excitement… and anxiety increase. What if I suffer a heart attack? I visualise the headlines in the local paper: Respectable local man dies in brothel – partner never knew. Witty whispers: ‘He went before he came!’ I alight at Pokesdown Station – aptly named – and I’m reminded of a rough suburb of London. I stroll down Boscombe High Street trying not. Of course I sent a telegram to Madeline at the return address shown on the letter saying that I would be delighted to meet her and her sister in Paris on the suggested date. It was late afternoon as the ‘Fleche d’Or’ drew into the Gare du Nord in Paris. As I looked anxiously out of my compartment window, I spotted Juliette on the platform, with an attractive younger woman whom I assumed to be her sister Madeline. As soon as the train stopped, I stepped out onto the platform and hurried over to. More

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