He speaks to me in German, like in the films, and just keeps on speaking. As if I would understand. But I don't know any German at all. Why would I? We're in the middle of bloody Roscommon, there's no Germans here. Sentences with a strange cadence tumble from him; it's like listening to a baby playing with a toy drum. Bang, bang bang bang, bang. I'm not sure he even really sees me. Or that it matters. But I am here. Smiling. I think. I guess it doesn't matter. Nothing means much these days anyhow. I am old, he is old. We both share the strangeness of just being old. Being creaky, sore and tired. I am tired. I am tired of listening to him to be frank. Everywhere here there is a clatter of cups and saucers. It hurts, like being hit on the back of the head with a metal spoon. He continues on regardless, that incessant repetition of strange words, falling from him. Like a man spending his breath on words. Does he know I cannot understand? I'm sure I said it? There's a small muscle in me cheek twitchin' from the tension, keeping a pleasant face on. But sure I am not pleasant. How can I be? Tired, old; forgotten when not even dead. A grey old feck. Useless grey old feck. That's what the children say. "Feck off", the children in the street say. And run away laughing. In the street! With other people watching and listening, going about their business. Devils. I can't help myself. I wish them pain. In their legs and arms. Pain. To feel the pain and to feel old. And tired. Do they ever feel tired? Little feckers. I don't understand why I am old. I don't understand German. I don't understand anything. Maybe it is just too late for understanding now. I'll drink me tea. Later I could drink some of that whisky Charlie left over at Christmas. Was keeping that for Easter but sure maybe now is as good a time as any time to be drinking it. I could make a toast to Germany and the Germans. Why not? He's laughing away there now. And I think there's a few chicken drumsticks from Sunday in the fridge still. Chicken and whisky. A bit of that Dalkey mustard in the cupboard that Mary left behind her when she was over last summer. That'll be grand.