I step off the Star Ferry in TST and head to McDonald's for breakfast. I'm 21 and I go with what's familiar. Thick, humid air as I make my way along Canton Road for the short walk to Ocean Centre.
Well, not MY office. The office of USA Today. The cool air conditioning in the lobby as I head to the lift.
Hong Kong is great, but this is just an office job. Everything outside is enchanting, exciting and vibrant, but an office cubicle is, at the end of the day, an office cubicle.
The whole space is divided into cubicles where I clock watch for the most part. I love Lamma Island and I can't wait to get home. Bad attitude? Maybe. But sometimes it just feels like I'm wearing a suit that doesn't fit, quite literally.
My job today? Phoning hotels to see if they have copies of USA Today. Fun times. Bishop Lei, Conrad, Hilton, Marco Polo, Regent and many others.
Winnie sits near me but she's very quiet. I don't think she likes me much. I attempt small talk. She doesn't want that. Fair enough.
Mark, my American boss, is away for a week at Gannett HQ in DC.
What to do.
What to do.
Muted conversations in Cantonese from Raymond's office. He's ok, a bit of a sycophant toward Mark, but nice enough. Mark could say, "Hey Raymond, tomorrow I want you to wear a hat made of a roast lamb dinner" and Raymond would do it, I'm sure.
He gets drunk after one beer. The other night we went out as a team and had a good laugh, but he was slurring his words in no time. The next day I said to him, "Hey Raymond, that was a fun night!"
"Come into my office and close the door!"
Oh god. What have I said?
"Listen to me, you don't ever mix social life and work. This is a place of work. Don't talk about it again. Do you understand?"
I understood.
The next week, drunk again, laughing, back slapping, singing.
The next morning? I kept my mouth shut.
No one in the office cares if I burst into flames. I could do, what's the word? Anything.
The rule is, if you have a meeting somewhere else, write it on the whiteboard.
It's only 9am and I could sleep on my keyboard.
Stuff this. I'm going out.
I walk to the board and pick up a pen.
What to write.
"Meeting." First word done. So where shall I go?
Sod it.
"Conrad Hotel."
And the reason? Think James, think.
"Advertising and marketing."
Meeting with: manager.
How generic can you get?
Winnie is on the phone. I try to catch her eye. Waste of time. Raymond's door is closed. He's either working or playing Chess, I've caught him at it before and watched him minimise it quickly. Checkmate, Raymond.
Doo Doo is on reception, a lovely lady, the only one who seems happy.
"Bye Doo Doo, meeting at..."
"Ok no problem bye."
Out the door. Down the lift. Out onto Canton Road. The air is so heavy today but it's a cloudless sky and too nice to sit behind a beige computer in a grey cubicle with grumpy Winnie.
Past Planet Hollywood. The burgers are good there.
Past the newspaper stalls, into the Star Ferry terminal. Upstairs on the ferry today, why not? It's a beautiful morning.
Freedom.
I can drag this out for hours.
I walk from Central to the Conrad. Very slowly.
The door is opened for me. A smell of jasmine and opulence.
Now what?
A Coke with ice and lemon. It makes a nice sound as the waiter approaches with it on the tray.
To ease my conscience, I decide to have a meeting.
I approach reception.
"Can I speak to the manager, please? My name is James Wren, Circulation Sales Manager, USA Today." I didn't manage a thing, but I had a card, which I handed over with two hands.
The manager came out. I shook his hand. Asked if he was happy with USA Today and how many guests asked for it in the morning. He gave me a spreadsheet.
"Maybe we can do a promotion together."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Can I set up a meeting with you to discuss?"
"Of course."
He was free two days later. We had lunch and talked about advertising and inserts. None of it came to fruition, but that steak, I'm telling you, it was amazing.

It seems dream-like looking back at Oman in the '80s and, actually, it was dream-like then too. Oman had a profound effect on me, and when I reflect on my childhood, Muscat is one of those places where I'll always have a piece of my heart. My dad served in the Sultan of Oman's Navy, and during the spring, summer and Christmas holidays between 1985 and 1988, my mum and I would fly out from the UK to spend four to eight weeks there, based at the military camp near Rusail, known as MAM Camp.

Spring 1987, and the Gulf Air Tristar is on its final leg from London after a stop in Bahrain, just before sunrise. My skin is dry and my eyes are tired, but adrenaline is racing through me. We're flying over the UAE and across the border into Oman. Below, the golden, jagged Hajar mountains reveal very little sign of habitation. I spot a road and a few tiny villages hidden between clusters of date palms. We turn to starboard near the Batinah coast, and the mountains give way to the blues and greens of the Arabian Sea, the early morning light reflecting on the water like a million tiny crystals. A cargo ship heads east, maybe to India or beyond.

We're following the coast now and descending fast. "Cabin crew prepare for landing." A smooth touchdown as the Captain applies reverse thrust. First in Arabic, then: "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Seeb International Airport where the temperature is currently 25°C." It's only eight in the morning and already a beautiful warm day. A thin layer of haze hangs below the tips of the mountains. I look out at nothing but jebel and sea.

Not far from the runway is what we called the airport beach, beautiful untouched sand stretching as far as you could see. The entire area to the east is undeveloped, wild and rugged, with pristine beaches and not a soul in sight. The terminal is small, and we reach it by bus as the engines wind down.

Dad is there to meet us. Outside, the heat of the day. There's his car, and just like everyone else on the base, it's a white Toyota Corolla, parked in a sea of other white Corollas. Sometimes it was hard to spot ours.

I leave the bayt the next morning with my towel over my shoulder, squinting in the bright light, stopping to watch lizards scurry across the wall. There's a sweet smell of jasmine in the air, the sound of air conditioners, and the delighted tweeting of tiny birds bathing in puddles left from the watering. My soles slap against my flip-flops as I cross the rocky terrain. I remember Dad's advice and keep an eye out for scorpions.
I arrive at the officer's mess and greet the staff: Lopez, Albert, Nizar and Vinod. I head to the kitchen and sit with them. Vinod offers me some jelebi, and I'd forgotten just how sweet it is.

After a day of play and a belly full of Mirinda and chips, I head back to the bayt, my skin smelling of chlorine. The pool sits glass-like behind me as the distant call to prayer carries across the base. An Air India 747 approaches Seeb. The land is cooling, the sky turning from deep blue to peach and amber, a light breeze coming off the jebel.

That night we head out for dinner, stopping at Matrah Cold Stores in Rusail for Tanuf water, one of only ten large supermarkets in the entire capital area. I love it because it sells American products you can't get in the UK. I always took a few sweets and cereals home to share with friends. Between Rusail and Al Khuwair, it's mostly untouched jebel. We pass the Seeb Novotel and Oman Convention Centre. There's very little traffic. The new Holiday Inn in Al Khuwair has just opened.

Beside it stands the Al Zawawi Mosque, which seemed enormous to me as a kid. Next to it is the Princess Restaurant, where I once had the hottest curry of my life. But we're not going there tonight.

We drive along the highway, my window slightly open for the cooler evening air. In the distance, the Intercontinental Hotel with what looks like huge setting suns on its roof. I love this place. I felt like all my senses were alive in Oman, and during school days back in the UK I'd regularly drift off. "JAMES! Pay attention!" My mind should have been on maths. It was on Muscat.

We turn off the highway and head to Qurum beach to collect shells and paddle. It's quiet, just a couple of families and some fishing boats pulled up onto the sand. Local kids are playing football and I kick off my flip-flops and join in. Mum and Dad sit on the sand and watch. The world feels perfect.

Welcome to the Sabco Centre, the only bespoke shopping mall in Muscat. It still smells and looks new. Aside from buying music cassettes, what I really loved was Sinbad's, an Omani fast-food outlet with great burgers and kebabs. That was where I wanted to go for dinner. It's still warm when we leave. A sweet smell to the evening air, the lightest breeze, the sound of a plane climbing out of Seeb and the roar of the highway.

Back to the car and homeward bound. Dad has the radio on. Tomorrow will be 35°C. I'll be at the pool with friends, swimming and playing until our fingers and toes are prune-like and our chlorine-smelling bronzed skin can take no more.

In the weeks ahead we'll go to Nizwa, Seeb, Muttrah, Sur, Sohar, Fanja and even Khasab. Oman still has the same charm and hospitality it always had. But it was a very different place in the '80s. It didn't have the malls and facilities it has now, and tourism barely existed. With that came a feeling of exclusivity. Nobody back in the UK knew anything about Oman, especially in an internet-free world. It was a magical time, and I cherish every single day I spent there. Shukran, Oman.

Friday afternoon at Ocean Centre. It's nearly 5. My colleagues will probably stay until 8 but not me. I've done all I can today. Minesweeper is minimised on my desktop, just killing time. My American boss is away in Japan, but I know my colleagues will tell him if I leave a minute before 5. They hate it that I leave at 5 anyway.

"We stay until 9 PM, James."
"Do you? Well, that's wonderful."
5 PM. I'm out of here.

Wallet and keys in hand. Out the door, down the hallway, into the lift, hit G with ferocity, doors closing. Out into the hustle and bustle of Canton Road, past the people waiting to get into Planet Hollywood. I'm a man, a boy playing at being a man, on a mission. Pavements packed, weaving in and out. I need to get home. Why? It's Friday night on Lamma. I lived for it.

I pick up a cookie from Millie's and board the Star Ferry, upstairs, port side. Salty spray on my face, sunlight dancing on the water, skyscrapers glistening as the heat of the day says farewell, still warm enough for short sleeves with the lightest breeze. I survey the Central scene from the ferry like a tourist seeing it for the first time.

The clatter of the gangway as it hits the pier. We stream off like scurrying ants. A short walk to the Lamma ferry. Familiar faces, happy ones. Beer, noodles, friends, laughter. Top deck at the back. Beer bottles click, we cheers and kick back, ready for two days of bliss.

We're underway and heading home. A hydrofoil to Macau passes by, there goes the Discovery Bay ferry, sleeker and faster, but for me the place has no soul. Lamma was where it was at. A chilled vibe, where people seemed more interested in who you were than what you had. I knew people in the newspaper world who chose Mid Levels or Discovery Bay. Nothing came close to Lamma.

The ferry turns to port and the skyline disappears. Once we spot the power station chimneys, we know we're nearly there. A million miles from Ocean Centre and yet just a short ride.

Off the ferry, and you can sense the happiness in the air. The chatter and clatter from the restaurants, kids on bikes weaving in and out, laughter, warmth, smells. Nick the bookman chatting to someone, random dogs playing and chasing. The slap of flip-flops, Cantonese, English and Filipina conversations layering over each other.

"Quick pint at Deli?"
Always.
The Deli Lamma, our local bar and weekend breakfast haunt, where everybody knows your name. A decent slice of my salary went here, and I loved every penny of it.

That night, Tai Peng village. Friends, a barbecue on a rooftop, grilled chicken, cold beers, good music, better company. Above us, the stars put on a show for free.

The whir of the milk float's electric engine. The clink of bottles, door to door. Dew on the recently cut grass and a BMX left out overnight. Distant church bells and birdsong. Summer, 1983.

A tabby cat licks its paws, then rolls onto its back across the slowly warming tarmac.
It's 8am. A red Sierra estate sits in the driveway, boot packed high. The bonnet is up. Dad checks the oil and water while the family prepares to leave for Tenby. Mum locks the front door and checks it twice.

The brother and sister climb into the back, clutching their comics, Mandy and Beano. Laughter and excitement. Click-click, seat belts on. Doors closed. Windows halfway down.

A light aircraft drifts overhead through wispy clouds. Dad closes the bonnet and the sound echoes across the cul-de-sac. The air carries the smell of creosote from freshly painted panel fences.

They wave to the neighbour heading out for his paper. Dad tests the wipers; two tiny jets of water arc across the windscreen as they pull away. Over the hill and gone, off to the M5, then the M4. An empty space in the driveway. The tabby cat strolls across it.

An open bathroom window, the hum of a hairdryer, the sound of a transistor radio. "Like to get to know you well," sings Howard Jones.

A boy of eleven wheels his Grifter down the side of the house, running a hand along the white pebble-dash wall and removing stones in the process. Wheels over loose gravel, past the Renault 5 in the drive. Somewhere nearby, a strimmer starts up.
The smell of cooked breakfast.

He sits on his bike facing the edge of Dartmoor, his white Puma trainers barely touching the ground. Shiny red Liverpool shorts and a white T-shirt scented of fabric softener. It won't be quite so clean by the end of the day.

He's off to Colin's house to build a den, and he won't be back before dark. Past the milk float, over the hill, down through the estate, past the silent and locked classrooms with chairs stood on the tables, with six long weeks ahead, along narrow Devon lanes.

Number 64 are planning a barbecue tonight. The whole cul-de-sac is invited. The sun will set and the smell of charcoal and grilled food will fill the air, along with laughter and the murmur of conversation. The perfect end to another perfect summer's day, on an estate where the days felt like they lasted forever.

The flight was nearing its end; my seatbelt was tightly fastened as we glided through the heavy clouds, which broke occasionally to reveal tree-covered hills and clusters of apartment blocks. I caught the briefest glimpse of a Maersk cargo ship cutting through the deep turquoise sea, and I wondered where it was heading.

On the other side, I briefly made out a few apartment blocks, which quickly disappeared from view as we tilted from side to side amidst the thick grey clouds. My skin felt dry, and my eyes were heavy. I wiped my face with a small towelette as I checked the seatback pocket for anything I may have left behind.

The lightest of rain splattered against the window like tiny darts as we turned sharply to the right, just as my stomach felt the familiar sensation of being left behind, reminiscent of a funfair ride.

The Rolls Royce engines roared, and I quickly glanced at the sick bag in the seatback pocket, just to be safe. I wanted to ensure it was there since I had a very sensitive stomach. Come on, make it down without throwing up...

We seemed to wave goodbye to the heavens with a sway from left to right, before a very sharp turn had me reaching for the seat in front.

Now, we were flying above the concrete canopy of Kowloon’s apartments. One minute, we appeared to almost hover like a helicopter; the next, we were racing across a cacophony of chaotic rooftops with their criss-crossing washing lines and power lines. Below them lay a labyrinth of teeming streets with processions of red taxis and beige minibuses. We then descended rapidly and landed on the harbourside runway with all the grace and elegance of a brick, just as the overhead baggage bins rattled and two French backpackers behind me clapped as we touched down.

Thirteen hours ago, I was at Heathrow for a short flight to Paris. The damp and drizzly London evening, the churning feeling in my stomach, the hint of self-doubt—yet here I was, I’d arrived.

I was amazed that the undercarriage survived; such was the ferocity of the impact. An elderly Chinese lady in the opposite row let out a long, exasperated breath while fanning herself with the safety card. It was very muggy on board, and everyone seemed desperate to disembark this Air France 747, our home for the last twelve hours. I had spoken to the two backpackers earlier, and they told me they were heading to Hong Kong to catch a connecting flight to Beijing later in the week, with the ultimate plan of travelling overland to New Delhi.

They had no visas and no clue how they were going to manage it, but it didn’t seem to faze them. Courage or craziness? Either way, they seemed like real travellers—not like me, a 21-year-old clean-cut boy playing at being an adult, off to Hong Kong to find a job.

I sort of wished I was going with them, embarking on some real travel. I had a swish apartment waiting for me; at least the name, Grand Panorama, had me dreaming of opulence, even if it were only for a week before I'd have to move into a cheap as chips youth hostel.

I suppose what I was doing was better than temping in some dull office in Bracknell and living at home with my parents, but there was still a feeling of trepidation. Who knows, maybe I’d “find myself” in Hong Kong? Although, at that moment, I just wanted to find myself in a shower followed by a bed.

As the plane turned at the end of the runway, the wing pointed toward Hong Kong Island for a second, and I watched the harbour activity under a muggy grey sky. A French cabin crew member welcomed us to Hong Kong, which was shortly followed by classical music. I was here in 1982 as a kid when we left Australia, but I'd obviously forgotten a lot of it, and one thing I'd forgotten was how small the airport was. "THAT is the terminal?" I said to myself, but it was perfect.

My adventure was only just beginning...

In 1988, we moved from the peaceful and friendly Saundersfoot to its total antithesis: Wokingham, Berkshire, the belly of the rat race. This reasonably pretty commuter town on the M4 corridor, just fifty minutes from Waterloo, felt cold to me, conservative in every sense of the word, and a million miles from peaceful Pembrokeshire.

One minute we were down by the harbour, the sound of waves, seagulls, sail rigging clinking against the masts, locals popping over for coffee. The next we were settling into a house close to the M4, surrounded by planes, trains and automobiles, neighbours who wanted to argue about where the fence line was between the respective gardens.

When we lived in Wales, I attended a tiny prep school. Most of the kids were from forces families and the fees were heavily subsidised. There was no snobbery, no one scoring points, no interest in cars or possessions. We were too busy being kids. It was somewhat ironic that the status anxiety was waiting to hit me like a bullet at the state school.

On my first day in Bracknell, I thought I'd arrived in hell. The kids were so cutting with each other, everything mocked and sneered at. I took the train every day, the 08:13 to Waterloo, packed with kids and commuters. "Train now approaching platform 1 is for London Waterloo, calling at Bracknell, Martin's Heron, Ascot, Sunningdale, Longcross, Virginia Water..."

Wokingham wasn't an ugly place, really, and I was glad to live there rather than Bracknell, which felt brutal, cold and corporate. Post-war grey carbuncles, sprawling housing estates, the most vacuous town centre I'd ever seen. One tall building, the 3M building, standing out like a sore thumb above a brutalist shopping precinct.

The kids at school were more interested in what car my dad had and how much he earned. "What reg is your dad's car?" Most had parents who drove company cars. As Dad used to say, "At least our Escort is paid for and ours. If they lose their jobs, their car goes back."

I'd never considered the status of a car before. It never came up in Pembrokeshire. This lot were a different breed.

I remember saying good morning to people as I walked down our road, often met with blank looks. One lady actually turned to me and asked, "Sorry, do I know you?"
I struggled to make friends. The kids were so cutting and judgemental, especially those in my class from Ascot and Sunningdale, who really thought they were something special.

Once they found out I'd moved from Wales, they went for the jugular with clichéd stereotypes and base-level jokes. When they discovered we'd lived in a static caravan for a few weeks before moving into our house, in a school of 1,400 kids, I became known as the gypo pikey. When you're thirteen and you hear it every single day, it starts to grind you down.

For years I'd been pestering my parents about getting a dog, and in November 1988 my dream became a reality. I chose the puppy who would go on to be called Sam, part of our world from February 1989 until May 2003. He changed my life. No matter what happened at school, I couldn't wait to get home and see him. We raced, chased, cuddled, played and walked for mile after mile. He truly was like a best friend.

Christmas was always special. We'd start each Christmas Day by giving Sam his present, normally a fresh bone from the butcher or yet another teddy he used to fall asleep holding in his mouth. I'd put a little red ribbon on his collar and head out for the Christmas morning walk. He'd roll around in the frosty grass, and after we'd chased each other and played with the tennis ball, we'd head home. Mum would be in the kitchen, Dad would come down, and we'd open presents in the living room.

Sam would lie on the carpet, tail wagging whenever anyone so much as looked in his direction. Weetabix with warm milk for breakfast, then tearing off down the garden, barking at birds or planes climbing out of Heathrow. Concorde would always set him off.

His favourite fields are long gone now, buried under new builds and relief roads. It's best to remember things as they were.

Sam was the best thing to happen to me as a kid. We did everything together, and not a day goes by, particularly at Christmas, when I don't think of him.

Every Christmas Day I remember my Grandad because it was his birthday, but I think of Sam too. So at some point during the day, no matter where I am, I'll always find time to say, "Happy Birthday, Grandad. Happy Christmas, Sam."

Sam really was my saviour.

A distant call to prayer echoes as the day’s heat begins to fade and the land slowly cools. The sun slips behind Muscat’s jagged, golden mountains, casting the sky in amber and crimson. Palm leaves move in the evening breeze, bringing some relief at the end of another sweltering day.

The pool lights flicker on as I step out of the water, droplets falling from my skin onto the tiles. The surface settles again, smooth and still. 

The Indian staff, in white shirts, black trousers, and red cummerbunds, begin setting tables for a barbecue. The air fills with conversation as they carry trays of meat and salad. Nizar and Albert from Kerala stack plates, then pause as a low rumble rolls across the sky.

An Air India 747 climbs steadily overhead, heading east across the Arabian Sea. For a brief moment, it carries them home, to their wives, their children, and the beaches where fishermen haul in the last catch of the day. Silently, they follow the red and silver plane with their eyes, lost in the thought of the world they left behind. 

My flip-flops slap against my soles as I head across the rocky jebel towards our flat.
I can still smell the chlorine on my skin after spending most of the day in and out of the pool. Every step reminds me to watch for scorpions. In the distance, a desert fox appears. I stop to watch. It freezes, head turned toward me, then after a moment, slips away toward the mountains.  

It becomes dark very suddenly. Another low rumble in the sky as a large plane climbs into the heavens, but this time it’s hard to tell which airline. I don’t want to think about going back to school. This is where I want to be, because here I feel free.

I was running on financial fumes when lady luck finally tapped me on the shoulder. It had been really close. After weeks of cold-calling, being told no by sharp receptionists and PAs, setting up fruitless meetings, attending trade shows, and even handing out my CV to baffled commuters heading up the mid-levels escalator,

I needed a new angle, otherwise I'd be back on the plane to boring Berkshire, back to living with my parents and hearing my mother on a Saturday shouting, "Get out of that bloody bed and rake up the leaves."

One night at the Kangaroo Bar, I got talking to the barman, who gave me some great advice.
"Listen, mate, you need to go where the rich people live. Mid-Levels is good, but you need to disco."
"Disco?"
"Yeah, Discovery Bay on Lantau. Get over there and meet some people. That's where all the directors live, and a load of pilots."
Get over there and meet some people. Just like that. Still, it was worth a shot, so the next morning I took the ferry across to this opulent corner of Hong Kong. It reminded me of an airline inside.

When I arrived, I thought I'd landed at a country club. People whizzing around in golf carts, cafés, restaurants, the smell of jasmine, the sound of the sea lapping against the shore. An oasis. But I was still clueless as to what to do.

I approached one guy and started with requests for directions, then asked more questions about the place. He turned out to be a Cathay Pacific pilot, and he confirmed it was a good place to network. Go to the bars at night, he said. I didn't fancy that. Besides, it was 10am and I wasn't going to wait until 9pm. I needed to do something, and fast.

When I was a boy, I'd spent a lot of time in Oman. My dad was in the navy out there, and Discovery Bay really reminded me of that expat life. I wanted to slot right in and have a slice of it, but I was a long way from it. Twenty-one years old, zero experience, like a kid in a sweet shop without money to spend.

After wandering around for a couple of hours with my mouth and eyes wide open, I decided to get something to eat. My budget meant there was only one place to go: the local supermarket.

In a tiny mall was a Wellcome supermarket, and whilst I was queuing with my cheap sandwich and juice, an idea struck me. I could sell myself. There was a noticeboard offering yoga, English lessons, Cantonese lessons, childcare, toys, cats and everything else. What wasn't listed were twenty-one-year-old wannabe corporate boys looking for a job. That was, until now.

I asked for a card, borrowed a pen, and wrote a lonely hearts-style ad with a lust for work, not love. Hammed up my CV on one side and pinned it up. Like a lottery ticket: bought, forgotten, and if my numbers came up, that would be a bonus.

I had three more days at the flat at Grand Panorama before I'd have to move into the god-awful Victoria Hostel on Hankow Road, so I used that phone number as my contact. If I'd had the budget, I'd have opted for the YMCA, but funds were low. Victoria Hostel was cheap, and having seen it a few days earlier, certainly not very cheerful. Beggars can't be choosers.

Two days passed. Nothing. I started picturing myself arriving at Heathrow on a dank and dreary evening. I walked around the flat muttering swearwords to myself and accepting my fate.

Time was ticking. If something didn't happen soon, I'd have no contact number. I stood in the shower, just letting the water run over me, when I heard the phone.
I jumped out, grabbed a towel, and slid across the floor.

It wasn't lady luck. It was Mr Luck, and he was an American CEO for one of the world's largest newspapers.
"James? It's Mark from USA Today. My wife was looking to sell a pine bookshelf on the supermarket board and she noticed your advert. We're looking for a Sales Manager. Would you like to have a chat?"
Everything went from dejection to elation. I knew I'd get the gig. Just a hunch, but my hunch was right.

I spoke with Mark the next day, and two days later he offered me the job. Twenty-eight thousand US dollars a year. Not a lot of money. But what position was I in? I took it with gusto. A week before Christmas, he invited me to Ruth's Chris steakhouse for lunch with the team.

"Order whatever you like, James, it's on USA Today."
I'm not the greedy type, but that day I ate like a king. As I sat there in my least-wrinkled shirt and trousers, I felt pretty proud of myself.

The first bit was done. The rest could wait. Mark gave me an advance on my salary and took me to Ocean Terminal, where I was measured up for a suit. I started work on the third of January. On my way back to the hostel that first evening, I felt out of place all suited and booted, but I'd taken the first step. Three weeks later, I was living on Lamma.

I'm just glad that Mark's wife was looking to sell that bookshelf.

Twilight descends as we leave Gordano Services on a warm evening in July 1984. We've had shepherd's pie for dinner and I've had a quick look at the magazines.
"Come on, James, let's get home. You can look at the comics tomorrow when we fetch the paper."

It had been a long drive from Greystoke, Cumbria, to see Nanny and Grandad. Dad grew up in Threlkeld, and Grandad had been a signalman. He's slow now. It's the cancer from smoking. He stopped a year ago, but the damage was done. There was nothing left to do but prepare, and everyone knew it. I wasn't totally sure what was happening. Dad just said Grandad wasn't well.

Dad hasn't spoken much on the way home. Maybe he's just tired.

We stopped at Sandbach Services on the way down. Now Dad flicks the indicator on the old beige Rover 2200 as we head west and homeward bound. Exeter on the M5, then the A38, where life slows down. Dad says the faster world begins in Exeter, but I'm glad we live on the slower side.

Motorway lights flicker on. The radio picks up interference from nearby power lines. Then Avalon comes on.
And the background's fading
Out of focus
Yes, the picture's changing
Every moment
And your destination
You don't know it
Avalon

It's cooling down as we pass the exit for Weston-super-Mare. I wind up my window. Dad looks sad, as though there are permanent tears in the corners of his eyes. Mum is asleep. I reach forward and touch Dad's shoulder. His large, warm hand envelops mine. A squeeze that says, I love you. I squeeze back. He turns slightly, smiles and winks.

By the time we arrive home it is pitch black. As we drive through the estate, something strange happens. The engine falls silent. Dad tries the ignition. Nothing.
"Oh. That's not good," he says, shaking his head.

Lights out. Radio silent. Not a sound from the car. He thinks quickly. There is just enough momentum to take us to the top of the incline. Our house is halfway down the hill and Dad coasts it down, easing on the brake as he goes. A turn into the cul-de-sac, a sharp right onto the drive, and slowly to a stop. Handbrake up. We are home.

All the way from Cumbria to South Devon. Three motorways and one final trip.
"It's dead," Dad said. I knew it was true, but I asked anyway.
"But Daddy, maybe it can be fixed. It's only an engine."
He still had both hands on the steering wheel.
"The damage is done, darling. It's too late now."
He welled up, and Mum and I held him as he sat in the driver's seat.
"Come on," he said. "She won't empty herself."

A chill in the air off Dartmoor as we carried the bags inside. The stars were out, and lights burned in all the surrounding houses except one. The Bishops were watching telly. Stillness on Brakefield.

I was soon in bed. Mum and Dad came up to kiss me goodnight. As Dad switched off my light, the glow-in-the-dark E.T. stickers on my headboard lit up.
"Love you, James. Phone home!" He did his E.T. voice and pointed his finger, but I could tell he was fighting hard.

"Love you, Daddy. It was a good car, wasn't it?"
I pulled my Star Wars duvet up to my neck.
"The best. Sleep now, and we'll get the papers tomorrow. How about that comic?"
I nodded. He switched off the light and went downstairs.
I heard Mum ask, "You okay, love?"

Silence. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were holding each other. The sound of a kiss.
I dropped off to sleep.

It would turn out to be the last time Dad saw his father. When they said goodbye on that warm morning, they held each other for a long time. But they had to let go so we could drive home.

Nothing lasts forever.

It’s 6am on a winter morning at Totnes station in December 1985. The platform is hard with frost and there’s a faint smell of diesel in the air from Unigate dairy trucks arriving from South Devon farms. I hold my mother’s hand as we wait for the train to Reading, where we’ll take a bus to Heathrow and then fly to Oman to see my dad.

It’s mid-morning for him in the land of frankincense and dates and it feels a million miles from this small town in Devon. He starts his day with breakfast at the officers’ mess, maybe by the pool, under frangipani trees. He showed us photos when he was last home, camels, Omani elders eating dates beneath a tree outside his flat.

I was enchanted by it all and couldn’t wait to see this different world. But for now there’s an InterCity journey ahead.

My gloves feel warm against my hands and I can see my breath.
I breathe out and make a steam train sound.

We’ve been up since 4:30am. Mum yawns loudly and it echoes down the platform, making me laugh.
Two men in bright orange British Rail jackets appear out of the early fog, chatting and carrying tools over their shoulders.

A tired voice crackles across the tannoy announcing the 5:54 service to London Paddington, calling at Newton Abbot, Exeter St Davids, Tiverton.
In the distance the lights of a 125 appear through the darkness.

We step back as it rushes through, a yellow and blue blur. The high-pitched whirr cuts through the cold air like a washing machine spin cycle, sending a gust across the platform.

I squint as it passes, wondering if it will even stop.

The train slows, wheels squealing as it brakes. The smell of diesel returns.
Mum struggles with the door. A porter helps and lifts our suitcase onto the train. I step into a warm carriage. The smell of diesel is replaced by bacon and tea as someone walks past with a roll and a cup.

A South Welsh accent calls out a welcome on board.
The carriage is mostly empty. We have a table seat. I take out my Beezer comic from my red rucksack. I stick the Gulf Air label on straight away.
Mum reaches across and holds my hand.
She smiles but looks worn out and not ready for the journey. I’m too excited to notice.
The station guard stands outside our window.
He raises his flag, catches my eye, smiles and blows his whistle. I see his breath.
Goodbye Totnes.

We move out past the town into the fields of South Devon. It’s still pitch black, more like midnight. A dairy truck heads towards Totnes, full of milk for bottling.
Mum returns from the buffet car with two bacon rolls and two teas. We eat as we pass Newton Abbot. Hardly anyone gets on.

We race through Teignmouth and along the estuary towards the sea. Dawlish Warren comes next, but we don’t stop. I press my nose to the glass.
The train guard comes through checking tickets, clipping corners as he goes.
He reaches us.
I hand him my ticket.
He studies it briefly.
“Both to Reading, yes. You are together, aren’t you.”
We laugh.
He moves on with a smile.

Outside the track runs close to the sea. Waves crash and spray up beside us. Grey sea, grey sky, merging into one. A woman walks her dog along the path beside the railway. A fishing boat sits far out.

I fall asleep with my head on Mum’s lap. She strokes my hair while reading her Jilly Cooper book.
I wake as we pass Exeter. Snow now covers the fields near Castle Cary. A farmhouse appears and reminds me of The Snowman.

We race through a village, red lights flashing at a crossing, a Land Rover waiting for the barriers to lift. Christmas lights blur in a window as another train flashes past.
We play I spy. Mum dozes again. I watch the snow-covered countryside as we speed towards Reading.

I draw a picture for Daddy.

I draw the table, two empty cartons of Just Juice, Tracker wrappers, Mum’s book, my pens and Beezer comic.

An announcement comes that we will soon be arriving at Reading.
Change here for Wales, the Midlands, the North, Gatwick Airport, and the Railair bus to Heathrow.

The snowy fields turn into buildings and roads. Everything feels busier now.
We gather our things. Bags ready. Jackets on.
The train slows with a jolt.
Cold air rushes in as the door is opened from outside.
Mum pulls the black Samsonite case behind her. I wear my red rucksack on both shoulders.
We follow signs for the Airlink bus. People hurry in all directions. Whistles echo across the station. Announcements fill the air.

Outside winter sun, cold but bright. The Salvation Army plays Once in Royal David’s City.
The bus waits with its engine running. Bags are being loaded.

I see London taxis for the first time outside London.
The bus is full. Heating on. Warm and sleepy.
Mum gives me a Trebor mint.
We join the M4 towards London.
Traffic builds.
My eyes grow heavy.
By the time we reach the motorway I am asleep, dreaming of distant lands.