Which brings me to my reason for writing to you. Are you ready? You might want to sit down . . .

∗  ∗  ∗

So, Ian – welcome to the graveyard of ambition!‘

Emma pushed open the  staffroom door, immediately knocking over a pint glass on the floor, last night‘s fags suspended in lager. The official tour had brought them to the small, dank staffroom which overlooked the Kentish Town Road, packed already with students and tourists on their way to Camden Market to buy large furry top hats and smiley face t-shirts

Loco  Caliente  means  Crazy  Hot;  ―Hot‖  because  the  air-conditioning  doesn‘t  work, ―crazy‖ because that‘s what you‘d have to be to eat here. Or work here, come to that. Mucho mucho loco. I‘ll show you where to put your stuff.‘ Together they kicked through the mulch of last week‘s newspapers to the battered old office cabinet. ‗This is your locker.  It doesn‘t lock. Don‘t be tempted to leave your uniform here overnight either because someone‘ll nick it,  God  knows  why.  Management  flip  if  you  lose  your  baseball  cap.  They drown  you  face down in a vat of tangy barbecue relish—‘

Ian laughed, a hearty, slightly  forced chortle, and Emma sighed and turned to the staff dining table, still covered with last night‘s dirty plates. ‗Lunch hours are twenty minutes and you can have anything from the menu except the jumbo prawns, which I believe is what‘s known  as  a  blessing  in  disguise.  If  you  value  life,  don‘t  touch  the  jumbo  prawns.  It‘s  like Russian Roulette, one in six‘ll kill you.‘ She began to clear the table.

Here, let me—‘ said Ian, gingerly picking up a meatily smeared plate with the tips of his fingers. New  boy  –  still squeamish, thought Emma, watching him. He had a pleasant, large open  face  beneath  the  loose  straw-coloured  curls,  smooth  ruddy cheeks  and  a  mouth  that hung open in repose. Not exactly handsome, but, well –  sturdy. For some reason, not entirely kind, it was a face that made her think of tractors.

Suddenly he met her gaze and she blurted out: ‗So tell me, Ian, what brings  you down Mexico Way.‘

‗Oh, you know. Got to pay the rent.‘