- Forest Keepers — Rattling past in tractors on wet autumn days. What option but jealousy? They are spending Tuesday afternoon in the forest! Clearing fallen trees at the edge of muddy paths, their boots working sawdust and puddles into a grey paste. Spatters of rain on their overalls, dribbled from the tallest pines. The birds wont shut up.
- Sign Holders — You know these. They sit on street corners holding temporary signs. Bypassing street laws. I pitied them, initially. So ineffectual. So demeaning. Work with no point. Until recently, returning to the office, I passed one on a stool in the sun, reading Ulysses. Work with no point.
- Park Groundsmen — It’s the benefit of both I think. Grass and the city. On their knees, planting a few flowers. I know people who plant flowers for fun. The swell of oxygen as you enter Stephen’s Green. The girls, who come for the grass.
- Gallery Wardens — Stiff-backed, erect in doorways. Like beefeaters only twenty-two in neat black dress. Tourists wandering through halls that smell of art. Eight hours standing in front of An Teaghlach. An enforced pilgrimage. What connoisseur could make the same claim? Osmosis.
- Novelists — Rising at noon, porridge for breakfast. Slow cups of tea. Silence. What’s in the paper? Clickity-clackity. A fine idea, may change the world. Walk in the afternoon. Branches dappling the winter sun. Inspiration! Clickity-clack. What makes a man? We have the answer. A few more years, just wait please.