On the end of the second row of the collected Global Great-and-the-Good, was a big swarthy bastard; probably North African I guess. I nudged Tristran...."Who's the big guy on the right? Second row?"He put his hand in front of his mouth and whispered: "Tariz al-Majarif, Gaddafi's Number 3 in Libya's hated security service. Got out two days before Tripoli fell. Said to be worth $6-billion!" Nice. Where's he keep it? Under the matress?" All over the place. Rumour has it that he's got most of it. I stood to the side, so his view of her was unobstructed, 'Joanne, stand up', I ordered her, 'You know the arrangement'.As she rose I stole a look at him, and as she straightened, his face lit-up proportionally, then looking back at her, she realising this also, showed a radiance of her womanhood, as she proudly thrust her breasts out and sucked her perfectly flat tummy inwards.'Sorry, I got a fright', she said, and boldly walked to him offering her hand to shake.'Is this some prank like Candid. More

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