David McMillan

Two o'clock's come and I'm still working away on one bar.

It might be fine during the day when you can make a bit of noise.

My name's Jack Lawrence.

We'd let foreigners have care packages.

The locals had a few things sent in.

They'd cut their soap bars in half, pour their shampoo and whatnot into a newspaper to take it with them, dunk their clothes in buckets of water and paste it

dried out drugs or intoxicants in them or something, I don't know what.

But anyway, just to make the point, you can't have anything.

But foreigners, well, they're not going to be bringing drugs in from foreign countries.

Foreign countries are just rich people in streets of gold.

They don't do all of that.

But I was a bit worried about hacksaw blades coming in, so I gave Michael...

a little task to do.

In the care packages, there'd be clothing, there'd be food, there'd be tens of stuff, the whole works, artist materials, all sorts of stuff.

But one thing that did kind of mean something to them was religious sensibilities.

So Michael drew up a scroll, like a neuron of parchment.

What was written on it?

Go placidly amid the noise and haste.

You probably remember the opening line.

It was from, supposedly, from some monastery and change the things you can and fuck off everything off that you can't do anything about, that kind of thing, from some monk.