During the latter part of the reign of King Christian the Ninth, there lived at Holl in the Tunga District a farmer named Brandur. By the time the events narrated here transpired, Brandur had grown prosperous and very old — old in years and old in ways.
“One Two Three Four!”
They tear into the song, furiously attacking the track, tightly embracing the slight acceleration in tempo that live performance always seems to bring to the piece.
The employees have disappeared into their Christmas party, leaving us as sole occupants of the office. Inside this room, the artificial light makes the whiteboards glow pale green.
We – Zlatko and I – are stepping out of the bar and onto the cobbled street. We leave behind us Gligor, Gligor’s sudden temper and the chair he has just thrown against a wall and broken to pieces.
“Faster, please, Beatrice. Tempus fugit!”
"Dude, it may be icy, but it's a wheelchair you're in, not a bob-sleigh! And we've still got 30 minutes to get there - chill!"
In anticipation of the annual surf trip, I am always conscious of my Christmas Day alcohol intake. Each year, I decline Kian’s offer of a nightcap.