The American Bar, a magician's nephew and Rumi 

When I was a headteacher, it was wonderful to drive to Southsea, to forget about trajectories - I would leave school on Friday, still wearing my suit - on arrival at Richard's, I would discard the pin stripe of an apparatchik -

Richard might be crafting the final lines of a delicate poem - Rocky, the cat, would perch upon a pile of lesson plans - light would filter through the curtains of the bay window -

Away from Albert Road, we would head for Old Portsmouth - rowdy kebab joints would give way to serene villas - stained glass fanlights would glow like jewels in the twilight - the air would ripple with memory -

Looking up at the attic window of a narrow house, I would wonder what mystery it shielded - perhaps a shock haired magician was handing his nephew a magic ring -

Fishing boats were moored within the Inner Camber - rope and gear were piled up on quayside - the Spinnaker Tower reared up, like a setting for a Sci Fi novel - there was a large mural of Rowlandson's Portsmouth Point decorating the wall of the Bridge Tavern -

The American Bar is full of louche characters - well preserved women slink past men wearing loafers - charming girls serve us sea bass and False Bay Pinotage -

Richard tells me about his latest travels - with each bumper of Pinotage, I can feel scales fall from my skin - the names of foreign cities thrill me - Cape Town, Venice, Istanbul, Seville -

We talk about Rumi - I saw his tomb in the Mevlana - what you seek is seeking you -