The days of Ramadan tick by, quietly, and we watch the night sky. In a couple of nights, the full moon will mark the halfway point. The No Locals sign on Chalky's door has fallen once or twice, is showing dog-ears, but will probably last the fortnight. It scarcely matters; it's there only to placate the outrageable and be ignored by the regulars. Ringlets, on her corner stool, manages a wan smile, but still pines for Mahmoud. Back in two weeks, he'd said. On a brighter note, this full moon is also the Chinese mid-autumn festival of zhong qiu jie. Fasting is not a requirement. It's another excuse to eat moon cakes and be very happy. Nothing wrong with that.