“We are talking,” and here, Len the Fish leant in conspiratorially, “the dirtbox.

Short Tony nodded sagely. There was an interruption from the other end of the bar.

“Excuse me yes, I am looking for ze pigfarm?”

The visitor was foreign (nb the ‘ze’, above, represents this) – possibly Polish or North European, a quiet, slightly hoarse voice. He wore a blue suit with a dazzling yellow tie that was just imperceptibly too wide. A man not dressed for the pigfarm.

The Angelic Barmaid blinked at him. It was her first night, and so far very standard questions like ‘could I have a pint of beer please’ had seemed to confuse her.

“Pardon?”

“I am looking for ze pigfarm? Apparently it is near here?”

She looked round for help. Several people were trampled in the rush.

“What pigfarm?” asked Ron. “There are pigs all over the place.”

The man shrugged slightly helplessly. “Just ze pigfarm.”

“Have you got a name?” demanded another regular. “You must have a name?”

Another shrug. “I do not have a name. Just ze pigfarm.”

“Well what are you doing there? That would help.”

“I have to meet a man.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know his name, I am afraid.”

Ron changed tack. “Well there are loads of pigs in that direction, he offered, pointing out of the window down the road. But no pigs in that direction. Does that help?”

The man thought. “Not really. But thank you.” He worked his way round the bar, asking about the pigfarm hoarsely and sheepishly. Eventually a consensus arose that he should drive to the farmhouse closest to the nearest pig field.

He thanked the bar in general. We wished him luck and he departed, yellow tie lighting the way.

Somewhere, there is a man hanging around pigfarms. Waiting for a rendezvous that may never happen.

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