The more dangerous the pathways round here, broken glass, shattered metals of infinite variety, the more one must learn that old sufi trick of walking on hot coals just to traverse this goddamned city. For it seems a cult of broken glass, of dangerous litter strewn on the pavements and walkways is becoming prevalent. You’re lucky if you dodge the shitty boys in their small loud groups and cars, beating-wagons they call them, with their peculiar screams and chants trying to scare wolves; their diesel fume breath and arses leaking oil, heavy on the brakes Eugene –

Monday mothballs and Bensons at the bus-stop –

‘You’re kidding me. You’re not really Italians are you?’
‘We’re not kidding. No.’
‘Just look at their surnames Frank.’
‘Sorry, I only bore holes in the ground. Didn’t mean to comment on your backgrounds. Just that you were so convincing that’s all.’