Just got off the plane

And am feeling multi-banged up by cargo hold.

Me and Fusel (Fusel and I) spent the last ten hours in the dark oil stinking belly of this cold war flying shit-house, with straw bales, chickens and a lashed tower of Samsung microwaves for company.

Fusel had his travelling set of chess out. Tiny milled steel or aluminium pawns, knights and bishops; brass or copper rooks, kings and queens; depending on the side you're on. Sharp pin feet stuck in, holes in, alternating oak or padouk squares.

He had this Eastern European belief he's better chess-wise than any pasty westerner like me (Gymnasium of the Mind) but I have this aptitude, and I gave him a good run for his money (we bet on the outcome of our second after a cagey first).

I lost in the end (end-game pawn manouevres, in which I get lost).

But he's not so dismissive now: he's younger than me, but he had that weary patronising, and sometimes sanctimonius, way of suffering my enthusiasm; and although that eyeward skyward thing he does (which irritates the fuck out of me) is still sometimes going on, he listens a bit more now.

And all because I sacrificed a bishop for a winning attack on his fianchetto.