I’m in an airport bar in Houston, Texas, and I’m falling apart. Three hours ago, I was in a rented apartment, researching a story I was working on. But now, suddenly, unthinkably, I’m on my way to South Africa, and I need a drink, urgently.
When the barman hands me my glass of Shiraz I fumble and drop it. It shatters on the floor, and everyone looks at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as he mops up the red stain. ‘My son just died.’
Back behind the bar, he pours me another glass and slides it over to me with a look of such gentleness I feel the tears
