(knock at door) That must be the first architect now.
(Mr Wiggin comes in) Ah, yes - it's Mr Wiggin of Ironside and Malone.
Wiggin walks to the table on which his model stands.
Mr Wiggin: Good morning, gentlemen. This is a twelwe-storey block combining classical neo-Georgian features with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive in the entrance hall here, and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort and past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled flesh slurps into these...
First City Gent: Excuse me....
Mr Wiggin: Hm?
First City Gent: Did you say knives?
Mr Wiggin: Rotating knives, yes.
Second City Gent: Are you proposing to slaughter our tenants?
Mr Wiggin: Does that not fit in with your plans?
First City Gent: No, it does not. We asked for a simple block of flats.
Mr Wiggin: Oh, I see. I hadn't correctly divined your attitude towards your tenants. You see I mainly design slaughter houses. Yes, pity. Mind you, this is a real beaut. I mean, none of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows, inconveniencing the passers-by with this one. I mean, my life has been building up to this.
Second City Gent: Yes, and well done, but we want a block of flats.
Mr Wiggin: May I ask you to reconsider. I mean, you wouldn't regret it. Think of the tourist trade.
First City Gent: No, no, it's just that we wanted a block of flats, not an abattoir.
