someone on the ground had hit us with a laser pen. I was disoriented. And furious. But I told myself to be grateful for the experience, for the practice. I was also perversely grateful for the stray memory it knocked loose. Mohamed Al Fayed, giving Willy and me laser pens from Harrods, which he owned. He was the father of Mummy’s boyfriend, so maybe he was trying to win us over. If so, job done. We thought those lasers were genius. We whipped them around like light sabres.
