Now that I focus on my sacred charge of ballons, I see that they are held togeher with a dirt rooten stick covered with cheap brown paper and masking tape. There is one sliht gash in the paper. The balloon seller pushes the stick to me. I accept the stick. It seems more warm than I expected. Hotter tha you might expect even than that held by a sweaty old man. I realise the stick the ballons shuffle to the roof. I gaze around the dark room. Two fat men in grey suits watch me. They are wearing shades, even in the gloom of the early afternoon in a central city pub. They say nothing, but seem to be drinking orange juice. The ballon seller reaches the toiler door. He looks around with a furtive look and goes into the gents. The fat men with shades look at him as he enters the toilet door.