(1200 words) Like something out of a James Bond film, I was to observe and photograph a Russian agent being handed secrets. The setting, Painter’s Fairground, set up for the week on a field just out of town. It was getting dark and I wandered between the brightly lit and gaudily painted stalls, laden with brilliantly coloured boxes containing tacky plastic toys. I inhaled the smell of electricity, petrol engines and candy floss, whilst my ears were assailed by the noise and excitement of the rides. The bumper cars careening across their conductive floor, sparks flying from the connecting rods as they moved across the ceiling. Crazily driven by laughing teenagers, girls made up to look ten years older, twenty-five instead of fifteen, accompanied by lanky youths in coloured tops and tight jeans. I passed the Ghost Train, hearing the thundering vehicle passing through the wooden shack, children screaming in faux-fright, and always, the relentless chugging of generators everywhere. I tried in vain to imagine someone designing a Ghost Train vehicle and the ‘spooky’ house it ran through. And factories manufacturing them in some godforsaken place. “Hey, Pal, wanna try your luck?” A barker with a time-worn face and pork-pie hat addressed me from a shooting gallery where little ducks ran on rails. “Sure.” I put two pound coins into his brown leather hand and took a rifle