‘Motherfucker calls himself a designer,’ she said. ‘And his autumn fucking accessory? Anal fucking beads! Once again with the anal fucking beads!’

In my innocence, I did not know the exact purpose of anal beads, and I confided as much to the Turkish model.

‘Is sex toy,’ she said. ‘Lots and lots of glitter beads on a chain. These beads they get bigger in sequence. What you do with these beads …’

I put a hand to my empty stomach, and pleaded.

Silvija opened the scarred laptop and mailed the Tasmanian – he was apparently online even in intensive care – and sprayed some heavy snark about his autumn accessories. The Vietnamese clucked contentedly and went to the kitchen zone and stirfried some scallions and chicken gizzards. The flunkies lounged in hipster bliss, and then fizzed madly and loudly for a few moments – looking for knickers or garter belts – and then lounged some more. The Turkish model stroked the inside of my arm and said she was not exclusively homo and had always liked redheads. I was on a roll with ladies who liked ladies. Eventually some photos were taken. The Rottweiler took a dump in the middle of the floor. Silvija said:

‘Perfect! We use the shit!’

This was the Berlin fashion scene, in the summer of 2005, in the district of Wedding. There was a lot of heroin and a lot of dog shit. Everybody was thin and gorgeous.

And Jesus, did we smoke.

v