“Should any man wish to make himself immortal by painting a picture of wretchedness, then he’d be wasting his time knocking on my door. Maybe go to Mr Galbraith’s over the road. There he is now, look, alone in his polytunnel with his pitiful competition onions, neglected for two weeks in Cuba. A no-rosette situation for Mr Galbraith.”
So… what do we know about Mr Galbraith?