" "Yeah, they all have to get up early for work. I go in a little later, so I can stay up. May I buy you a drink?" "That would be nice," she said. "Yo... can sit here with me if you like." I took her up on that and sat down on the seat next to her. We introduced ourselves and began to chat it up a bit. Her name was Cheryl, divorced and living alone. She worked in the investment area at one of the banks in the area. She had been divorced three years and, from the sounds of it, didn't do too much. It sounds like that special way a friend of mine talks to her cat. And Jonathan is taking less notice of my reply than she does of the cat's purrs and meows. Am I still human? Have I become some sort of "other"? Is that what being a slave does to you? That you adapt to the way you are treated and your status as a slave hardens around you like a new skin? Actually, they don't stop my asking what's going on. I do it to myself, I realise. Time to re-assert my humanity, I think. Time to re-engage. More

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