The men in black.

The man at the door was large, red faced and dressed all in black. He was also swaying slightly. I took an involuntary step backwards out of the vodka fumes.

The combination of his inebriation and my poor language skills didn't make communication easy, but I managed to gather that he had somehow saved my life and the lives of everyone in the building and was willing to accept folding money as a token of my appreciation. "This has to be the mafia I keep hearing about," I thought to myself. "It's a protection racket—I pay up and this large, florid gentlemen and his friends will guarantee that I don't suffer an 'accident.'" It was then that he thrust a slightly crumpled calendar at me and mentioned chimneys, which gangsters hardly ever do.

It wasn't until I had pressed ten zeds into his hand and he was lurching down the corridor that I realised what was going on: I had been visited by the legendary Polish league of chimney sweeps. I also remembered there was some superstition associated with chimney sweeps. Wasn't I supposed to spit on him or tap him three times on the head or something? No—buttons, it was something to do with buttons. I thought about calling him back so I could do something with his buttons, but I could see the situation getting out of hand—I had no idea exactly what I was supposed to do with his buttons, or even which ones I was supposed to do it with, and I'm far from comfortable with the idea of fumbling with another man's clothing even when he’s sober. A piano will probably fall on my head the next time I step outside.

Most Polish superstitions are the same as British superstitions, except that you hang your horseshoes upside-down and have no strong feelings about opening umbrellas inside the house, but I've never come across a chimney sweep fixation before. It's a strange profession to nominate with magical powers. Why not taxi drivers or window cleaners? Small children could thrill at the prospect of rubbing the belt buckles of bicycle mechanics or the collars of investment bankers. Air traffic controllers could go round handing out calendars and receiving thanks for ensuring that no 747s have fallen on our heads.

It must be something to do with the black clothes. The only other people who get given money for intangible benefits are priests. They even come to your house to collect. I wonder who thought of it first: the priests or the chimney sweeps. I also don't understand why we're giving them money anyway. Don't they get paid for doing whatever it is that chimney sweeps do? If so, why do we have to pay them again? Is it particularly expensive being a chimney sweep—are those famous buttons made from unicorn testicles? Why don't Internet writers get paid twice? Sitting around all day in bars misunderstanding Poland isn't cheap you know. Would you give me 10 zeds if I came to your house and let you play with my clothing? No, I didn't think so.

Jamie Stokes