The crossword has it's way with words
PICTURE this: a man is sitting at a bar, half-drained pint at his elbow, gently tapping a pen against his brow. Spread before him is a newspaper. He is staring at it with the same intensity that CIA psychics stare at goats, trying to make them topple over.
It’s the afternoon and the pub is so quiet you can hear the Murphys-branded clock ticking. The man is the very apotheosis of tranquil, intellectual masculinity. He is doing the crossword.
