As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect.

‘Will you look at this shit?’ Cavana said, stubbing out a Marlborough Light.

‘Humf?’ Kelly was only half listening, absorbed in his own corrections.

‘Listen to this,’ Cavana continued, and read out the whole first paragraph.
Kelly, who’d been engrossed in a particularly puerile misunderstanding of Dickinson, took a moment to respond.

‘That,’ he said, pausing to rub at tired eyes. ‘Is quite simply, bare faced cheek.’

‘Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’ agreed Cavana, shaking his head.

‘There’s always one,’ he said, quoting the Tayto add; thinking how much he would enjoy a jumbo pack of Cheese and Onion.

‘There’s always one,’ Kelly agreed. ‘You going to show that to the supervisor?’
Cavana thought for a second, took a look at the enormous box of yet to be corrected manuscripts.

‘Yeah, feck it. Serve the impertinent shit right.’

‘Aye,’ Kelly agreed. ‘Will you grab us a bottle of Fanta from the machine while you’re at it?’

Cavana frowned.

‘Fair enough. Diet or regular?’

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