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Falzoni shared his room in the abandoned factory-c*m - ‘happy house’- brothel perched on the river bank with a colony of ants. A thin winding line of them trekked across the rough wooden floor, humping great loads of leaf and dirt ten times their weight to disappear through a c***k in a bent plank that had seen better, more honourable, days serving as part of a foreman’s desk. Neither man’s intrusive giant boots nor those man-made earth-shattering explosions outside was going to stop them. You couldn’t help but admire such determination.
If the same tiny room had been let out to a flea circus, those agile insect performers may well have been induced to ride piggy-back in order to allow for elbow-room. Bearing in mind, alas, that many of the wretched unfortunates of this war-torn land
