It’s late and the only guests still awake were the mother and daughter sitting at the bar. We were playing the post-it game again.

‘I’m a real person, living, a man.’ I said, organizing my thoughts through that whisky haze. ‘So. Do I travel?’

‘Yes, a lot,’ said the kid.

‘Do I have a normal job? I mean what’s normal... Do I have an office job?’

‘No, no... definitely not.’ Says the mother.

‘I like this man,’ I announce. It makes the kid smile a beautiful little smile. I’m paid in sunsets and sunrises, but I’m tipped in smiles.

At the end of the night, many drinks and questions later, turned out I was Osama Bin Laden. Beats Michael Palin, I suppose.