It is the morning after the night before and I have the distinct impression that I've killed a few million brain cells last night. My mouth tastes like a Greek all-in-wrestler's jockstrap after a hectic week long tournament without any form of ablutions available. I am very ill and it happened like this...

My good friend George, an Assyrian and the owner of our local pub, sprung a surprise book signing on me. This was done in collaboration with my wife who supplied him with 100 copies of my book.

George advertised the event two weeks prior to my return from Värmland and made an appointment with me to come and see him the moment I set foot in Stockholm. (He even had his brother, Afram, meet me at the underground exit as to ensure that I showed up) The evening started well and we sold quite a few books. It was a tonic to sit and discuss my work with prospective readers and some got stuck in the book straight away over a beer or two.

At some stage we had some cognac and I believe also cigars as I have no other explanation for the nicotine stains in my underwear this morning. I also could not understand why my one friend kept on falling over when we escorted him on the short walk home. We were not that drunk. It became clear this morning when George phoned and informed me that we forgot Magnus' wheelchair in the pub.

Nothing special ever happens in Stockholm. Just a typical night out.

About the Author

Gerrie Hugo was born and grew up in South Africa during the years of Apartheid. He fought for this cause and turned against it when he came to his senses. he is still alive, much to the chagrin of his enemies.