February 9, 2009
The Holy Hand-grenade came a-knocking armed with yet another band of cowboy builders. Telling tales of those Germans, no Poles, no Russians – he can’t be sure but thinks, ‘that country where they’re always fighting.’ Thank you esteemed landlord; illuminating as ever. You’d think, having hired the last troupe of hammer-clad misfits, he’d have some idea where they called home. No, how presumptuous of me: the man still calls me Brendan. He’s only spoken to me a couple of hundred times! We’ve broken his little heart by giving notice. And so depart the godless ones from the house that Mitch built.