Depression was spoken only of in the padded rooms of mental hospitals just before they gave you electric shock therapy or a lobotomy. ‘How do you fe...l now, Mr. Blue?’ ‘Huh? Where am I? Who are you? Who am I?’ ‘Great! He’s not depressed anymore. Next!’ Boy, am I so glad I wasn’t depressed back then. Kathy’s Mom allowed me up to her daughter’s room. I rapped lightly on her door. ‘Come in.’ ‘Hey, Kath, where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you at school.’ ‘I’m, uhm, not feeling well. I thought I’d lay. My guests had not been disturbed. There was only the problem of the broken window which was soon resolved by a local glazier who was good enough to replace the panes with those of wire set glass to deter any future intrusion. The only evidence of Miss Mbute's visit was the disarray in which she had left the Tusker files on my desk. My assumption was that she, in some way infatuated with my charges after their encounter at Greenwich, was keen to learn more of the Tusker girls. It was, of course,. More

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