Mr. Nothing knew many things, but nothing of much importance.
On warm afternoons, on his way to a walk along the promenade,
he liked to stop at Castlegate and listen to the old drunk Platocrates
bantering with seagulls on the steps of Mercat Cross.
Sometimes, in a fit of good humour, he would take the poet with him,
but usually he reserved these rare moments of respite for himself
and the shoulder bag, in which he carried all the essential things
that were never of any use.
hidden pilcrow 