Closed on Sunday's

'No eating or drinking on the premisis.'

Oh my gentle Jesus.

Without getting into the whys and the wherefores of my approximation to this dose of broken English - let's call it an office in some outsourced version of hell - it gave me great comfort and I texted herself immediately. If you think I'm pernickety...

"Get off that premisis, you might fall into the abiss," came the response and I chuckled among the sickly faces, the form fillers and the Casual Fridays.

The times are lean enough without students to admonish and corrections to turn red, so I figured if I became a sign fixer for twenty euro a pop I wouldn't have to ration out the Special K quite so frugally, I would not need to rewash and recycle those J-clothes to within an inch of their tattered lives.

A sign fixer, yes. A rediscoverer of absent apostrophes, a restorer of reputation to the businesses that really ought to know better, a quieter of pedantic bastards like myself who love nothing more than to frown on the stupidity of others. A good career.

"He was a fine man, he knew his plurals from his possessives and he was fondly thought of because of it."

The worst I ever saw came a couple of years ago. There I was, reciting the Greek alphabet to myself on a sunny Sunday on St. Stephen's Green when I double took like I've never double taken before.

"What the fuck?" I what the fucked to myself.

"Ah here, ah Jaysus..." and I took a picture to prove how I'm far cleverer than a billboard.

Shanahan's restaurant, that place of quality moo for a small remortgage, had a sign in its window, white on black, that would have had my grandfather spitting and blinding at The Irish Times' letters page.

"We are closed on Sunday's."

I will do it, please let me do it, please let me fix up Dublin's typographical errors for a small fee, a daily lunch allowance, the price of a red pen and a brand new stick of literary justice. I will not let anyone down.