The poem
Comes to mind as another small upheaval amongst the rubble. His eye matches exactly the bubble in my spirit-level. I set aside hammer and chisel and take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland springs from a pair left to stand overnight in a pond in the gardens of Trinity College, two bottle of wine left there to chill after the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story a moral. A moral for our times. What if I put him to my head and squeezed it out of him, like the juice of freshly squeezed limes, or a lemon sorbet?