I drank far too much tequila tonight. I could kick myself because I should have realised that a new face buying a round in the lounge would attract too much interest into who I was and where I had come from. Fortunately, I think people were too drunk to realise that my hastily made-up story had one or two major plot holes, and no-one seemed to notice or care that I couldn't quite hide the fact that I was sad and uncomfortable. It got to a point where I felt really guilty for being so evasive - for the most part and rather refreshingly, the government workers and travellers I met seemed like understanding and sympathetic people - but I can't be too careful.
I have to keep reminding myself that my past doesn't matter now. Though I don't think I'll ever get the black gunk out from underneath my fingernails (or indeed feel fresh and clean again), sanitising cells in the Brig has earned me enough credits and a positive reference to get a modest job at the Gaule Embassy welcoming travellers and stamping visas, a safe place to sleep, and a knife to protect myself with. What more could I ask for?