One wouldn’t normally expect a conversation to start with a whinge about the Rimsky-Korsakoff trombone concerto I was practising at school, proceed ...hrough Emerson, Lake and Palmer and end with a debate on the merits of Radiohead (we disagreed on Kid A but we both loved The Bends) but that’s what I got that afternoon with Emma. It didn’t hurt, or help, that her appearance was worthy of more than a second glance: dark shoulder-length hair, green eyes and pale skin on an averagely-built. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ blared from the speakers, accompanied by a chorus of drunken soldiers as he headed for the door. The night air was much better than the close confines of the bar. He was thinking he’d ride awhile when, abruptly, he headed for the tattoo parlor. A wind chime jingled as he opened the screen door and he heard the buzzing of a tattoo in progress. A young woman, oriental, looked up from where she was working on a soldier’s shoulder and regarded him quietly. He stopped in his. More

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