Our hero is in a brightly lit room in Tratinska Street in Monda's Fair City of Zagreb which is in the Northern part of the Balkans. He's enjoying a drink from an unlabeled bottle of very clear brandy, it's a Rakia made from unspecified fruit, he's smoking a Winston cigarette, there's a very old man called Rafael in an arm chair, a slightly younger man called Broz in the room, all of them looking at the contents of a rusty biscuit tin. And it's early 1970 something. How anyone remembers an actual date isn't something our hero takes too seriously, so nor should we.
But the point is while everyone was happily examining the content of Rafael's
biscuit tin, it occurred to your writer of pulp that the weather outside might
be good enough for a more traditional celebration of the Saint Patrick's Day
Spirit. Definitely talking Potato Planting, or at least further preparation of
the Potato Bed. And here there's always that horrible chance that it might not
rain until August, or something even more awful like four foot of snow in the
middle of April. Either way, I'm going for the Potato and if you listen
carefully you can hear the disgruntlement in Tratinska Street where an old
photograph of immense importance to our hero was being discussed..