"Ye spend yer days grindin glass an' at the finish yer life's like slurry at the bottom o' the wheel. The damp gets intae the soles o' yer feet. Yer face turns tae the colour o' pomas an' ye cannae stop it. Somethin' breaks down in the ciest an' the sound o' yer voice gets thin an' one day ye're an old man, bent an' brittle. Don'stay at it, Norrie, get intae the sun an' the fresh air. Don'stay at this trade. For if ye do, it'll bend ye."