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Just as we were about to make our getaway, the carpet seller’s son came running out of the shop, waving something. It was my Afghan shoulder bag! In my panic I had left it behind. I threw it over my shoulder and waved an effusive thank-you. We were finally away.
There followed nail-biting hairpin bends through the Khyber Pass, curfews in Peshawar, kamikaze truck drivers in India, and a stomach-churning trip on a Russian boat from Madras to Perth, before arriving in Melbourne.
It may not surprise you, dear reader, to hear that not long afterwards I parted ways with Georges. There were three of us in this relationship, and I knew which one of us had to go. There was simply no contest.
