Walking down the Las Vegas strip, somewhere between the Bellagio fountains and the older, doomed casinos to the north, among the fat men in t-shirts and women in skirts twenty years too young for them, among the grinning shysters and the tired homebound wage-slaves, I saw an angel. The sheer ramrod force of Vegas can make you tired and emotional, even if you've eaten nothing and drunk only water, avoided the gaming tables altogether and dodged all the touts for all the other attractions. Intensity is key in Vegas and it never lets up, not ever, not for a second and I can entirely believe that I was hallucinating. My angel was following me and I only saw her when I turned to take a picture of the neon behind me. She gave me a playful smile and waggled her wings. I was shocked, which evidently amused her and she winked at me as she walked past, white head-feathers dancing against the rapacious bars of the lights all around us. She was all in white, cape, wings, head-dress, long gloves, leotard, slippers and all. For a moment, I thought about a picture, but it seemed somehow churlish. It seemed that somehow a photograph might prove or disprove the hallucination and so destroy the moment. So instead I did what everyone does in Vegas when their angel walks by, they ignore her completely and head for their glittering, glittering doom.