‘BECAUSE HE’S FUCKING SANTA CLAUS, ALL RIGHT?’ I erupted, and the lap tray and two remaining cookies flew across the room and every lizard and rat in a twenty-mile radius scarpered. ‘HE KILLED THE LAST SANTA CLAUS AND READ THE CARD ABOUT THE SANTA CLAUSE AND NOW HE’S GOT TO BE THE SANTA CLAUS BECAUSE THAT’S THE SANTA CLAUSE. WHAT’S SO BLOODY FUCKING DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND!?’

They all sat there, open-mouthed, except for Paco – he was laughing. A lot. After that they all stayed silent, for a long time, until near the end of the movie when Ming ill-advisedly piped up with:

‘So he was the real Santa Claus all along? I not understand this movie.’

I walked out, and I kept walking, with Paco’s shrill laughter ringing in my ears the whole time. I strode across the terrace, through the hole in the fence and down into the ditch and all the way through the field to the place where I’d buried the men. I lay down, breathing deeply for several minutes, until I had returned – back to life, back to reality, back to myself.

And I felt so stupid. That wasn’t a moment to let Rhiannon fly. Why had I done it? Knee-jerk response. She was always there – caged. Primed. But no more. I couldn’t let Paco win. I had to be better. Take the higher ground, like Celestina had. Even if I knew, damn well, that surgery might be able to change my appearance, but it couldn’t touch my soul.

Friday, 15 March – Hacienda Santuario

1. Paco
2. Paco’s mother, father, and all the ancestry that spawned him
3. Paco’s chipmunks, Ming, Arturo and Stuzzy, who seemingly have only three ‘jobs’ they do for Tenoch – eat my Pop Tarts, shit and snore
4. Kings of Leon for not enunciating any of their lyrics
5. Bono

The nose job was my last surgery and the one I’d been dreading the most – not because of the inevitable pain, but because it marked the final step. After my recovery, I would have to leave the Hacienda. That was always the plan. And every day it became harder to contain my capricious inner self.

I got pissed the night before and my mouth did not taste good the next morning. I was coming to the conclusion that I couldn’t handle my drink and I’d already arrived at the conclusion I would never drink mezcal again. My vomit could outpace a bullet train.

Celestina gave me the doggiest of looks as we’d passed each other on the stairs – her with her mop and bucket of suds.

‘I think I got most of it in the bowl,’ I mewed. ‘I can clean it later?’ but she still batted her eyes and headed for the bathroom on a slosh of water.