‘Cures’ for incurable conditions

“Guaranteed!” he told me as he stood among his bottles of home-made brew on the pavement in St Augustine. “That smartman should be in jail!”, a passerby steups not even stopping to read his crudely hand-written labels for other hopelessly incurable conditions. Like say, the murky concoction I picked up which said, “For the Boy!”

“Tree hundred dollars, grampa!” he said sensing my ailment. Unfortunately, he doesn’t accept credit cards.

JEROME AUDAIN

Curepe