From Romania to London to— Well, a new beginning in a new place. Where do I belong? Everywhere and nowhere. I wander along life's highways and byways, wondering how many more anti-personnel mines Providence has scattered in my path... Oy!

Last night, I dreamt I went to Camberley again.

Okay, so not entirely original, and actually it was Camberwell S.E. 5, but what the hell? I've got to start somewhere. Well, that's where I was.

Now I'm stuck in a small market town in Lincolnshire, not too far from the east coast. That's the result of cost-cutting by the company I work for. I'm not naming it as I don't want any legal come-back if I say anything unflattering, which is not unlikely.

At least I've still got a job. I'm renting a flat here until I find somewhere to buy. And sell my Camberwell flat. It was small but it was my home for nearly six years. It's under offer which is good I guess, what with the credit crunch and subprime mortgage fiasco. Housing's cheaper up north too, so they said.

Why am I wasting my time scribbling away in my little notebook? It'll probably never see the light of day. Still, it's something to do, I suppose. Like the poet Shelley said:

"Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth;
And by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!"

The last few months have been pretty hellish, what with not knowing whether the rat bastards would keep me on or not. Then when they decided I was worth keeping, wondering whether to play safe and move, or stay in London and hope to find another job that paid enough. And wouldn't you know it? Now I'm wishing I'd stayed... : (

I don't know anyone here - well except for the handful of people that made the move along with me. Most of them are brain dead outside of the job. There are a few locals who've been recruited, but I haven't really had much contact with any of them yet. So right now, I'm bored - and lonely too, I guess.

I haven't introduced myself, have I? I'm Stefan Sorescu, born in Bucuresti (that's Bucharest for non-Romanians) in May 1975. I'm 1.83m tall - a sliver over six feet for Americans. : ) Need I say I have dark hair and dark brown eyes? Well, I've said it. And that's passed a little time so now I suppose I'd better write to Mãmicã.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not a 'Mummy's boy'. I've only seen her three times since 1985. She's had a sad life and I know my letters mean a lot to her. Oh well, pânã la mâine...

God, I was feeling sorry for myself there, wasn't I? Now - I think things could change on the social front. I seem to be in demand, though I suspect ulterior motives.

At lunchtime, a couple of the new people executed a neat pincer movement on me in the staff dining room. Obviously they figured they'd have a better chance with two on to one. And they had that predatory look, too.

Okay, so who are they? Two 'ladies' of that indeterminate age - you know, where they could be pushing fifty and well-preserved, or early thirties and lived a lot, so your guess is as good as mine.

The brassy blonde one, whom I'd seen standing out under the porch from time with a cigarette between her fingers, is called Zena. I think her last name might be Potter, because the other one kept calling her Harry.

'The other one' is Louise - dark-haired and pretty. She's quieter and therefore probably the more dangerous. {g} And what do they want me for? Well, my body, of course!

They both belong to the local 'Am-Dram' group which is always "desperately short of men - especially young, good-looking ones."

"I'm not that young," I said.

"Trust me, you're just perfect..." Zena said.

I wouldn't be surprised to find that these two have frightened them all away. Anyway, their group is having its A.G.M. next Friday.

"Oh, don't groan!" Zena begged with her hand on my arm. (Invade my space while I'm eating my lunch, why don't you?) "It'll be fun. It always is."

I gave her a very sceptical look.

"It's true," she said. "They keep the business stuff to a minimum, so if you came half an hour late, you'd miss most of it. Then we get on to the fun stuff."

"Which is?" I had to ask...

"There's a quiz—"

"Fun stuff?"

"Actually, it is," Louise put in, looking a little aggrieved. Maybe she runs it.

"And then we have the disco," Zena said, "and there's a bar!" She was practically bouncing. "So you will come, won't you? What've you got to lose?"

Well, my dignity is the first thing that comes to mind. But - next Friday just happens to be my birthday, and it'll probably be better than nursing a pint in the pub on my own - so...

"Okay," I said and got a hearty kiss on each cheek. What have I let myself in for?