Jeff O'Rama, Irish, ex-cop, now PI. Cocktail:

Jeff O'Rama, Irish, ex-cop, now PI. Cocktail: Soft White Russian (Milk of Magnesia, vodka). New case: Murder. Cops botched investigation. A woman, a professor, in a purple top coat

& a figure like an hourglass, with a sting you never saw coming. Woman are trouble, but an educated Broad? My instinct said no but her looks & the case intrigued me. "Mr. O'Rama,

They say you're the best." Hell, with that kind of flattery, how could I say no? "Alright, babe, I'll take the case. Just make sure you lay low and stay outta my way." Then she

stared to cry. "I'm sorry" she said, "I'm just so happy you will help me find my cousin again, I was getting so worried. When are you flying to Kyrgyzstan then?" "Wait, WHAT?"

In Kyrgyz culture, when someone buys you a plane ticket, it brings serious dishonour on all the family if you don't use it. "Go to Kyrgyzstan!" begged my mum, "find that cousin &

discover your true shaman nature! And so I did. I arrived under a gloomy sky, in a dirty post-soviet city. But the Mountain, I felt it the moment I saw it. It was there for me. So

I followed my instincts as they guided me towards the mountain. Oblivious to the cold and the storm clouds gathering overhead I climbed until I reached the top. My shaman destiny

was soon to become reality. This was the tricky bit. The really tricky bit, trickiness cubed: I jumped as high as I could and reached up for heaven. I tried to grab hold of it and

that family vacation we took to Piccadilly that one summer, but it came to a close second. "Buckaroo Banzai!" I screamed as the 8th Dimension drank me to ribbons.