The sun was a blinding blood orange hue so heavenly it left Picassoʼs Rose period for dead. An irrational Autumn day mistaking itself for a February heat-wave. I saw him spitting watermelon seeds at the pigeons through my camera lens. He used to be a Priest in Kathmandu. Fixated on my tattoos and twisting my arm to read the Sanskrit inscription he asked ʻAre your parents hippiesʼ? No, they live in Londonʼ. We gazed over at the monumental chess set. The pieces reminded me of a Freudian dreamscape. Jealousy, temptation and envy transcended by the mantra inked on my arm.