I arrive on-site hoping for some excuse to go away again. Two small wizened Polish joiners don't respond to my acknowledgment of their existence.
In common with many building works the two economic migrants are housed in a caravan so there is no need for them to ever leave the workplace. The general impression this morning, with the low temperature and the mud, is something approaching the ambience of a Labour camp.
The Poles are similar to each other like Ant and Dec but with a touch of Smurf because of the style of hat, they may be brothers or even twins, puffing away at filter tips and knocking in nails with what look like toffee hammers.
Anyway, I just think things must be really crap in Poland...
The owner comes over and tries to get them to do something differently with a hand saw, however they don't speak a word of the Queen's, he walks away in search of Papa Smurf.
The fact is, what they do speak sounds very like English but running through a tape player backwards. I bet if you recorded some of phrases and played them the other way it would say something like 'Paul is dead.'
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