Sometimes I feel like just another brick in the wall. Then I have moments of clarity and realise that I'm just as important as all the other bricks, because without me the wall would eventually fall down.

It's a comforting sort of thought to have while sitting on a weather worn bench in an ancient graveyard bathed in beautiful sunlight; admiring a recently placed memorial for some laid to rest soul (of no acquaintance or connection to myself), while the scent of the wreaths and spring flowers gently mingles with the smell of frying fish wafting over the old brick wall from the bustling weekly village market.

They say (whoever those faceless know-it-alls are!) that life is stranger than fiction. If my life is anything to go by I can only agree...