That day, back in nineteen seventy-eight,

I had passed the exams. They did blood tests,

Heart monitor, followed by an X-ray.

I took the metro to get my eyes checked

In a leafy, windswept Brussels suburb,

Then queued in the grey, underground canteen

For lunch. For ever. The squat steaks oozed blood.

Afternoon: interview in broken French

With a bewildered man in Fisheries.

Pleasant sort, but I would have to come back.

A train to Ostend, across Le Plat Pays.

A hour to kill before the boat left;

Quite green, I drank to stares inside a dive.

Unknown to me, Jacques Brel was still alive.