22 October, 2020

Designs, Accidents

Designs, Accidents
I had a houseguest in Goa once, a Bostonian WASP, six feet three, 190 pounds, blonde tresses down to his shoulders, tanned to a crisp, who lounged around in a sarong on the beach all day when he wasn't tearing about the countryside on an Enfield Bullet terrifying the local fauna. One evening he was stopped by a police jeep on Anjuna Road. The cops seized his shoulder bag and—well, well, well—discovered a sachet of coke. "A thousand rupees," the SI said, "and you go free." Patrick has never in his life snorted, popped, smoked or shot-up. He gets his jollies exclusively from Highland Malts and his job in Hongkong as Asian Bureau Chief of The International Herald Tribune. "Get lost," he said. Whereupon he was hauled off to the local calabooze and presented roughly to the Top Cop. Patrick then revealed his impressively credentialed identity. Egg on every face. The faecal matter, as they say in Boston, hit the fan.

But there's hope for our flatfoots yet. If Rane and Rodricks have anything to do with it, our redoubtful force will soon be led to the light. The means to...



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