Writer Pano Masti recalls more literary journeys. This time, book in hand, around the world by train. “Are those your prison tattoos?” Shaun asked with a cheek, and I had a moment of panic. “They won’t show,” he reassured me right away. The rolled up sleeves of the orange shirt I was wearing were just about covering the ink, the 1960s polyester material quite thin. Standing behind the all-night caf counter, I had my actor’s hat on, a day of filming in Oxford.