CHRIS HADDON

“Hi Chris. Hope you still remember me? I’m Mr. August. I wanted to wish you well. Best wishes.” This didn’t strike me as your typical spam email?

It would be worth wagering (a not insignificant sum) that each weekend, as a procession of recovery trucks laden with cars rock up.

His profession is one in decline. Little consideration is now given to the fact that a forest left to its own devices will, given time, strangle itself through a lack of light.

“Energy gels; piffle” remarks Lawrence, in his heyday a competitive road racer. In one quip he humorously disregarded decades of scientific research – in favour of his preferred choice.

This kind of contraption, although extreme to many, was just the next stage of evolution for Tom, who described his childhood (with his three siblings) as unsupervised feral kids surrounded by a fence.

Before me was, what many would deem, a ‘youth’ donning standard issue white adidas trainers, jeans, a black faux leather hoody and adorned on his forearm the obligatory mum and dad tattoo.

A charismatic Irish lady, with an impenetrable perm and heavy with gold, who without me enquiring relayed her turbulent life story.

Early in the new millennia common sense was on a high; due to West Wendover recently becoming the only state in Nevada to adopt MST (Mountain Standard Time).

Like the mortar between the bricks of the buildings around them – they remain.