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  And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:

A Dog’s Life

Don’t you just hate it when people decide to have a carnival on the street where you’re trying to sleep?

I do, I really do.

I’d learnt to always have some food with me for when my ravenous hunger peaked and I could no longer entertain any other thought than the deliciousness of food. So, when I awoke from a brief spell of shut-eye one night, holding my belly and suffering from a nasty nightmare induced sweat, I was extremely grateful that I’d left treats in my bag. A few slices of chicken, half a bag of potato crisps, half a bar of chocolate and a fizzy drink was just what I fancied, fortunately that’s just what I had. However, as I began digging through my belongings with sticky eyes and a fuzzy head, blindly feeling for my late-night supper, my heart began to pump harder and my muscles tightened in a panicked hunger. I quickly got a feel for the can of drink but where was the food? It didn’t take long to get my answer.

A few feet from where my head had been, I saw Scraps licking his lips, the empty chocolate and crisps packs by his feet.

‘You greedy, selfish son-of-a-bitch,’ I said – low blow indeed, but I was furious.

‘Woof,’ he said.

‘Don’t you woof at me you utter bastard. That was my food, you just went into my bag, my private bag, and took my supper.’

‘Woof.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that.’ I stood up to shoo him away. ‘Leave me alone you vile beast.’

‘Woof, woof, woof,’ said Scraps as he got up and started to leave. He growled as well – can you believe the cheek of him? He actually growled.

I’d been on the streets for several weeks and had been sleeping at the same spot for a couple of very pleasant nights, but I was not anticipating that this quiet little part of the Cantagalo favela was to be over run by the Rio carnival.

At first I just heard a few murmurs as I lay down to rest, but then it got louder and closer as a small group gathered nearby to drink beer, talk and giggle. As more people arrived on the scene I realised they weren’t just drinking beer but selling it and my private sleeping quarters had become most chaotic and unpleasant. Blocking my ears, rolling over to face the other way and sighing loudly were all ineffective as I tried to ignore the merriment and doze off into sweet dreams. Relaxation became even more challenging when music began to blast into my head, and the gathering started to get closer. My next plan was to inch slowly away from the party. Shuffling further and further with quick small movements while dragging my belongings seemed to be working until I ended up with my face pressed against a cold wall. Some moments later I rolled over to see that I’d been followed and the party was now right in my face.

The real encroachment of my territory came from a tall, drunk male in a red football shirt who nudged me with the back of his foot as he danced around, singing!

   ‘Gosto de cantar e dançar, pois é festa no Brasil

   há cerveja e mulheres com lindo bumbum.’

He was moving with great glee as women giggled, clapping to his moves. I peaked out from my pillow (my neatly folded shorts and shirt) to see his dirty toes in a pair of cheap sandals: surrounding this were some prettier feet with colourful nails, all moving to a very wonderful rhythm.

   ‘Gosto de dançar com você’ said one of the women.

   ‘Você deve dançar com ele’ said the man.

The laughter that followed was maybe at my expense, and there was some pushing and shoving going on amongst these people.

The minutes had ticked by to a full hour and the party was now in full swing, there were people everywhere. I really didn’t like the idea of attracting the attention that I would undoubtedly get by getting up and leaving. To top off my discomfort, they were beginning to set off fireworks nearby. It sounded like gunshots and made me twitch like a cornered badger.

Bang, flash, wallop, kaboom they went, followed by everyone’s cheers. Surely nobody could believe I was actually asleep and yet I was too terrified to move, or even open my eyes all the way.

Eventually, I overcame my fear, encouraged into life by the cold beer being poured on my face by the Brazilian entertainer. I reached down to my battered, filthy tramp shoes and put them on before tying the raggedy laces.

‘Wow a free beer,’ I said. ‘How very kind of you.’

I put on my coat and hat, grabbed my things, straightened my back and prepared to leave. The party was wild but everyone moved back as I stood up and there was a pause in the music and a gasp from the crowd, as if I had arisen from the dead.

‘Dançar com ele,’ said the man to the women around him. He wanted one of them to dance with me.

There was a long pause before I sprang to life singing, ‘Gostoso ma dancar es muito muito bonita,’ in a bad imitation of the showman who had woken me. One of the women grabbed me and did me the honour of the most wonderful dance. I tried to pretend it wasn’t for the amusement of her friends as I smiled and we looked into each other’s eyes. I moved my feet to a comfortable position, she moved her hips closer to me and shook her round bottom, bending her knees and jiggling her boobs that were trying to struggle their way out of her sequined blue top. She was a charming girl, a great dancer. I was mesmerised. She put her arms around my neck for another shake of her body and I was lost in her magic as she spun around to show me her wiggling bum from another angle – it was just as fantastic.

When it was over, the man took her hand and she gave me a farewell wave before leaving me to dance with him. He didn’t look such an accomplished dancer as me, I’m a great dancer – I really am. He spun her around and she Samba’d before giving him a kiss. I was jealous, but relieved that everyone looked happy, as it gave me the chance to depart safely.

   ‘Obrigado,’ I said to these people, before shaking hands with them and moving off down the street, momentarily abandoning my customary Chaplin walk in favour of a pathetic attempt at Samba. Don’t you just hate parties when you don’t feel a part of them? I do, I really do! The revelry continued, as did the terrifying fireworks.

Why was I so miserable in a place where so much fun was being had? I felt like the ultimate outsider, a good for nothing. Searching my pockets I had enough money for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. I considered trading this for three beers now, so I could join in the fun of the city. Yet beer was just not possible; it was a luxury I could not afford. I would be needing food tomorrow, and because of Scraps I was already starving.

I suddenly struck by an idea of genius. I was living close to one of the best beaches on the planet, on which I spent most of my days, so why not spend the night there as well. Not just near the beach but on the beach itself, as it would be marvellous to end this horrible evening with the pleasant sound of waves crashing and that wonderful smell of the sea, while I lay in a bed of sand.

Carnival was marching through the city and the colour and noise was breathtaking. Men in pure white suits led a procession of green peacock Oompa Loompa looking people who all moved in unison as a single organism. Fireworks lit up the sky like the end of the world, and confetti rained down on me and the other bystanders. The beating of the drums, the sights of the sexy samba and the huge floats made me run up for a closer look and sway my body to the rhythm. I picked up a Brazil flag from the floor and began waving it with great enthusiasm.

I’ve never been impressed by modern celebrities too much, but I really wanted to get closer to these carnival performers. One lady in particular was the Queen bee on a gigantic float that carried dancers as well as animatronics that grinned sadistically. She was swaying from side to side in rhythm with the drums and was on a platform ten metres above the other dancers. She seemed to lead the dance and I was imitating her movements from my lowly position in the crowd. Her long dress flapped and shook with reds and blues. Her eyes and smile radiated a pure joy of which I have yet to experience. I could see how she would make a good celebrity, mysterious as she was. I was definitely a fan. Following this float came all the vivid colour of the Amazon rainforest. Colours I just don’t normally see, the noise, the costumes and the dancing told a story of sexual competition, community and love. The spectators were as much a part of the show as the floats and the festival of flamboyance was a relentless party of energy and self-expression. I was awaiting a crescendo, but it just went on and on.

What a night of rattling great fun. I chose to leave early as it was way past bedtime and I wanted to get my sleep. Bad things happen when you don’t get your sleep. That’s what I’ve always thought anyway. Sleep is very important to a young man, so I battled my way through this procession of loudness and joy. By the time I got away from it all and walked across the vast street that led me to the ocean, I was a very relieved gentleman I can tell you. There is only so much the senses can take before it’s time for a sit down.

I prepared my bed with great diligence, sleeping outside is no excuse for not having a comfy bed. I unrolled the blanket that I borrowed from a hostel and laid it out in a tight rectangular fashion with no creases. I’m not a fan of creases. Then I took out one pair of shorts and a shirt that folded carefully to make a pillow. I wedged my other belongings between me and a nearby wall. s always good to do this, as there are thieves in the city that can cause you problems. I took off my hat, coat and shoes and unbuttoned the top of my shirt. I sat down and pulled my jacket up to my chest and dipped my toes into my shoes in case I should need to make a hasty retreat. Normally I would then lay down and sleep if I could, but on this particular night I decided to open a present given to me some weeks previously. I’d been waiting for an appropriate moment and this seemed like a nice time. Tearing the packaging apart I found a box with a teddy penguin in. ‘How very thoughtful and odd,’ I thought before laying down and letting the refreshing sea breeze wash over me as I drifted off into a moments sleep.

Then those god-dam Samba drums turned up on the beach.

‘Son-of-a-bitch bloody bastard,’ I thought. ‘Is there no peace for the wicked?’

A Spot of Bother

Delicious treats were all I could think about as I yawned and stretched, rubbing my eyes to catch a glance athe new day trying to find enough saliva to swallow.

I awoke to the faint glow of sunrise, and I sat bolt upright as I realised that I was not alone. There were a wide variety of dogs sleeping across the beach. One of them, a wretched mutt, was sleeping right next to me. It was Scraps. He had a terrible knack of finding me, I never understood how he knew where I’d be, but in truth, I was usually terribly glad to see him. Today, however, I was still fuming about our argument. I could see a man rooting through the beach bins searching for any food he could find.

‘I would like to treat this gentleman to a slap up meal,’ I thought to myself. ‘But not today, I only have enough money for myself.’

I got up and gathered my possessions. The dog sniffed, he looked and he listened as I fumbled around desperate to get my breakfast money. I would describe Scraps as extremely reliable in most instances, but also one of those chaps that you can’t trust when food is involved. You know the type I’m sure. You want to trust them, you really do, but you also know full well that the will of their stomach is very capable of overcoming their sense of decency. He turned around to bark at one of the other dogs that was wandering over.

Back on concrete I was in the mood for further alone time and private meditation. However, Scraps was following me so I tried to shoo him away. Perhaps the pesky dog thought I had more food for him to steal. I wished! Or maybe he was just lonely. No, he was definitely after food – the bugger.

I tried to push him away, feeling he did not deserve anymore of my kindness and that I needed to stop with the niceties. I gave him another shove with my leg and he grabbed a hold of my trouser with his teeth. I was in public now and I didn’t want to make a scene, but that bloody Scraps wouldn’t let go, so I had to drag him along with me. I eventually put a stop to this nonsense with my sternest look to which he replied with his dopiest expression. I wanted to shout at him to leave me alone, but there were enough people around to have made a full-blown argument between man and dog most embarrassing.

I relaxed when I got to the café; Scraps was not allowed in. Surely that would teach him to steal my supper. I was greeted by the loveliest of waitresses. A magnificent example of feminine wonder and beauty was she. Her face was warm and endearing; her smile glistened and her eyes twinkled. She reminded me a little of Mariana – but nobody is that beautiful.

‘Ola, tu du bem?’ she said.

I simply smiled and pointed at the things I wanted on the menu. The first thing to arrive was the juice, which I drank down fast. I was seriously dehydrated, so next I moved onto the coffee. Then the food arrived – fresh fruits, breads, bacon and egg. My appetite was no longer as strong as my thirst, and I was busy trying to impress the waitress with my best smile ever. Over the wall that separated the cafe from the street, I saw Scraps giving me sad, pathetic eyes and making a low-pitched sob. I threw him some of the salad that garnished the plate when nobody was looking. He looked down at the salad and then back at me. After a few moments, I couldn’t take his pleading eyes anymore and I tossed him some bacon, which he wolfed down. This was a mistake and was probably the reason Scraps kept finding me all these weeks. I forced down the rest of my breakfast. I would need the strength. The bill left me with nothing but coins.

Soon after, I passed an internet café and could not resist going in. This meant I would have to sacrifice my dreams of a fast-food burger lunch in favour of the cheaper Brazilian rice and beans in order to pay for this opportunity to catch up on my correspondence. I opened my social media page to see no new messages. At the top of the page was a picture of my brother, Bruce, with an elderly couple amidst the Himalayan landscape. Bruce was making a fortune leading tourists on adventure holidays. He had started this in Papua New Guinea, after contacts in the army recommended him to a retired Colonel. The word spread that he was great at it, and now he was working for several families keen to see more of the world. There is no way Bruce’s adventures are as exciting as mine though. Just no way!

When we were kids, Bruce liked to sleep out in a tent in the garden. I joined him a couple of times, but hated it. It was too cold and wet for me. Not my kind of adventure, thank you very much. Bruce would go on long bicycle rides in the great city of London (anyone can do that). He would practise sports in the garden, he played a lot of sports, both team and individual, and would come home with cups and trophies (I suppose that must have felt nice). He was six years older than me and always seemed to want to take care of me. He often tried to teach me things anyway, but he took great pleasure in my embarrassing failures did old Bruce, the swine. Like when I first joined him on a bicycle ride and I fell in a wet ditch and stood up covered in mud. Or when he taught me to catch a rugby ball, and I missed his javelin like spinning throw and it hit me in the gentleman’s region and crippled me to the floor. My brother’s raucous laugh echoed for miles. I never laughed much at all, apart from a stifled chuckle, thinking about what good old Charlie Chaplin had been up to in his movies.

I wasn’t really interested in Bruce’s picture because underneath was a picture of my great love, Mariana. She was right here in Rio, so close. But in this picture she was holding hands with her boyfriend. They looked so happy. I logged off immediately and walked off.

‘Seis reais,’ said the internet girl.

   ‘Oh, Desculpa,’ I fumbled in my pockets and all my change fell on the floor. Growing red, I had to get on my hands and knees to pick it up. I put the six on her desk, grabbed the rest and walked out barging through the door and off into the street with sweat dripping down my face and horrible images in my head.

I hadn’t talked for an awful long time before I met Mariana, back when I was a troubled teen in London. All a bit strange I gather, but I sort of became a mute for a while. As soon as I saw Mariana I wanted to talk though. She was one of those people that you just want to talk too. Actually, I wanted to listen to her more than anything else. She was kind of mysterious I thought and I wanted to know if she was the same as everybody else. I always got the impression she knew things. Things I can’t even imagine with my little brain. I often wonder what she knows that I don’t.

What’s next in the day of The Gentleman Tramp, after a hearty breakfast? A good old scrub and wash of course. I returned to the beach where there were showers and began to strip off for a clean. Scraps had of course followed me.

It was now day on Rio de Janeiro’s world famous Ipanema beach. It’s the home of the sexiest people on earth, you know. No other nation can pull off speedos and thongs. It had been the main location for my funny business for some time. Tourists are fairly generous to my Chaplin routines, but it is the locals who are more amused and willing to help me out with a little spare change. I guess, to them, I am totally different, a freak, a wonderful distraction from the intense boredom that life can be.

In my vagrancy I took for granted how amazing it was to be there amongst so much vitality, but that day I decided joining the lovely locals for a brisk swim in that inviting water would be most pleasant.

A morning swim, the romance of it was fantastic. The water froze my foot, but how refreshing. Bruce would be so jealous of this.

I approached the ocean relieved to see Scraps had his uses; he was sitting by my belongings and guarding them. Now I could really enjoy myself. The soapy backwash slapped my legs with icy venom before receding and pulling me deeper into its embrace as my toes squelched into the wet sand.

The water was building up for a big crash, and this time it reached my waist and pushed me onto the beach before sucking me back in. I took my opportunity to venture deeper as the sea retreated, so I lifted my knees high and bounded further and further forwards. I was still gallivanting on when a wave slapped me across the face and chest so hard that I was knocked down. I felt utterly invigorated and my face hurt with a giant smile. I got up again and ran even deeper in excited anticipation of my next battle with this salty foe. My body had adjusted to the temperature, so I plunged down into the murky depths and resurfaced to a forceful surge of water that I surfed into shore. Terrific fun! Beyond the mighty swells it looked serene and peaceful, so I threw myself forward battling past the waves to the calm still waters.

‘Incredible,’ I thought to myself soldiering on. I had noticed several signs warning about the dangerous current, but I thought it would be just fine as soon as I got past where these waves were breaking – and, of course, these warnings were for ordinary members of the public. It would be OK for The Gentleman Tramp.

I fought my way past several waves that cast an impending shadow over me like a blue whale falling from a skyscraper, until eventually it calmed and I could float. No more massive waves breaking. So I lay back, relaxed and enjoyed the soothing nurturing ocean that surrounded me.

‘Fantastic, what could be better?’ I said in my best Bruce voice.

When I turned around, Scraps was nowhere to be seen and nor were my belongings.

‘That double crossing mutt has stolen my things.’ I thought. ‘Bloody hell I will have to go back.’ It really looked a long way and the rough sea was breaking hard again. I was submerged by a couple of waves, but it was OK because they were taking me closer to shore, I thought!

I began swimming harder until I was picked up by an almighty wave that spun me around 540 degrees before dumping me unceremoniously on my head. The thud of skull on sand was deafening, the pain billowed through my entire being. Quite the bang on the noggin, I can tell you.

Aware that another mighty crack on the cranium would be most troublesome, I was very careful to land on my feet when the next huge rush sent me twisting and turning. Submerged, I struggled for air but inhaled sea. When I did get air it was with a splutter and a cough. I began swimming for my life, but would you believe it, another wave soon arrived.

Crash! I spun and flew along the ocean. The under current was so powerful that it tugged at my swimwear, before I knew what was happening my shorts had been yanked down to my knees, I managed to catch them and pull them up. For a person such as my self, emerging naked from the water clenching things is even worse than drowning. I waited patiently to resurface, but I could see I wasn’t getting any closer to land, so a fierce and resolute determination to get back as soon as possible overcame me. Digging in and flailing my arms frantically towards the far off beach I was furious that the waves were giving me such a dam good thrashing.

‘Come on, keep swimming,’ I pleaded to myself.

Reaching down with my toes, I felt no sand. Exhaustion began to kick in and I wondered how long I could continue this exertion. My body was reaching its limits and so was my mind. ‘Please get me out of this mess,’ I begged the universe.

As I resurfaced from another smashing there was some hope, two other swimmers not far away. They didn’t seem to be struggling – maybe I was getting close to safety. I scraped the floor with my big toe before being battered by another big wave and losing that feeling of ground. These two men were closer; I must be getting nearer.

‘Are you a gringo?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

I swam away from them, but they waved and shouted to follow. It dawned on me that they were lifeguards and within thirty seconds we were back in the shallow water and I could stand – all a big fuss over nothing, but the stars were aligning to ruin my day.

‘Thank you, thanks so much,’ I said shaking their hands ferociously.

‘No problem,’ they replied.

On land I was unexpectedly greeted by an excited Scraps, who was barking enthusiastically. I didn’t really care that he didn’t have my things, collapsing fully in the sand for about fifteen minutes was more important.

Eventually, I mustered the desire to start dragging myself along Ipanema beach searching for my clothes. Hoping we were heading in the right direction, I followed Scraps like a disciple. I trusted in his superior sense of smell and direction. My vision was blurry and I felt like I might vomit as the dog quickened his pace.

‘He’s found it,’ I said out loud.

Then I saw why Scraps was running. He hadn’t found my things. He was running towards a large stall on the top of the beach that was selling hotdogs. He looked back at me with pleading eyes. My gentleman act completely fell apart.

‘Oh, just fuck off!’ I shouted turning my back in fury and walking the other way. I put my head in my hands and continued my search.

I came across a water fountain and I drunk greedily, then ran my head under the spout, before walking to the other end of the beach in total desperation.

‘Please, sorry to bother you, have you seen a black bag and a suit,’ asked a respectable looking couple? They did not speak English.

Now that I had broken my silence, it became easier to ask. I find that a lot. I can be so shy, but once I’ve spoken to one person suddenly it’s easy. I had that when I finally spoke to Mariana, suddenly I could speak to lots of people.

One woman understood me and had a long think before looking around and asking another guy in Portuguese. He thought hard and then asked a young guy. This continued until there was quite a crowd. The attention was soothing. Another woman joined the crowd and asked me exactly what had happened.

She recounted my words back into Portuguese and I noticed the universal noises of sympathy. This cascade of care eased my tense mind and body. The adrenaline was dispersing from my aching tired body, but with this relaxation came a bigger problem. I have epilepsy you see. Actually, I often forget I have it, but then I’ll be reminded of it at the worst possible time.

My first fit was on an awful grey, thundery and muggy Wednesday back at school, in a maths class, when some kids were throwing things at my head and calling me names. I was so angry that my brain over-fired and my nervous disposition electrified to cause what would be the first of these epileptic fits. The feeling was horrible and my mind became a vile place. I used it as an excuse to take days off from school, where I could just study Chaplin and read. So it wasn’t all bad.

To have this happen now, on the beach, was dreadful. Everything became very surreal; my hearing went, I tried to speak but nothing came out. I crashed hard to the floor in violent spasms.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but I remember drifting out of my body, floating up and seeing a pathetic wretch convulsing on the floor. When I awoke I tried to stand, but had no strength, the paramedics were urging me not to move.

‘Fique onde está,’ said the man.

‘Where am I? What day is it?’ I replied.

A huge crowd had gathered and there was cheering and clapping. At the front of the crowd was Scraps, sitting patiently so as not to annoy anyone and be chased off. Nobody was answering my question.

‘Him, that dog.’ I said pointing at Scraps ‘he’s my friend.’ I tried to pat his head. ‘What day is it?’

They attached an oxygen mask to my face. ‘Ah get off me,’ I protested. They issued reassuring statements that reminded me I was not a dying animal, and I was taken in an ambulance to hospital where I was put in a bed. A real bed! My first real bed in weeks! Luxury!

‘What are you doing here in Rio de Janeiro?’ asked a pleasant looking doctor with a smart side parting and black-rimmed spectacles. I knew he was a doctor because of the white coat, stethoscope and clipboard. Also he introduced himself as Dr Santos, but I was in a big blur.

‘Searching for romance and adventure,’ I replied.

‘Your passport has been found with your bag, we also found your suit, hat and furry toy penguin,’ the doctor said, reading from his chart and tapping it with a pen.

‘I don’t think the penguin is mine.’ Iad enough problems to worry about without becoming the thief of a child’s toy penguin.

‘It’s not a problem,’ continuedhe doctor. ‘Why were you wearing these clothes? The temperature is 37 degrees in Rio today,’ he asked.

‘It’s just what I wear,’ (It’s really because I like to dress like my hero).

‘Where are you staying?’

Scratching my head, trying to find the answer to every question – the answers were buried somewhere. I really thought hard and long before telling him, ‘I can’t remember, sorry.’

‘Do you have any travel insurance?’ he asked.

I could not remember this either. ‘I think maybe I live here, maybe I do, yes!’

‘Get some rest, I will come back later,’ he said patting me on the arm.

As he departed, a middle-aged nurse came into the room and started to take my pulse and heart rate. She also gave me some cold water to sip.

‘Tu du bem?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

I didn’t really understand anything else she said. I said yes a lot. As she lent over me to fluff my pillows I, embarrassingly, started to get a twitchy erection. Why do these things always happen to me at the worst time? It’s most un-gentlemanly. My brain had suffered considerable trauma and my body was exhausted and aching, but apparently my penis had no idea. She wrote some things on another chart and I said, ‘Obrigado,’ as she filled up my water before leaving.

I am alone in my hospital bedroom now, trying to piece together how I ended up like this.

I am The Gentleman Tramp. Or at least I think I am. This is my story. Or at least I think it is.