Wednesday, September 12, 2007

What dressing?

Nothing but time I have, at the moment. On two weeks of a break, and unfortunately I've had to kick Dingle to the kerb on account of being on the brink of broke.

It follows that I'm sat here on my little chair, in my little flat, writing little words for your little eyes. And my little sanity.

Came back from Limerick today, had been down since Saturday for my da's 60th birthday party. The man was truly staggered by our deception, he walked into a chorus of 'SURPRISE' and the usual lark for these occasions. He was loving it though, and my mother and Anne, the chief architects of the ruse, could finally call an end to the clandestine phone calls and food arrangements.

Fair fucks to those who came, with special mention going to Kev and Austin, Ollie and the Belle, Dee and, well, all that dug into the cold meats and smoked salmon and what have you and toasted Mick on the occasion. He got five bottles of whiskey, a Diesel shirt, loads of vouchers and Celebrations chocolates. Loads of other stuff too but I stopped paying attention after I started in on the shorts.

On that note, I broke my pledge. 12 days I lasted, but couldn't keep from beer on Friday night in the Ferryman, seeing as I'd just been freed from Setanta Towers for a fortnight. Then my da's party and I couldn't see that one through without an ale and yes, I know, there's always an excuse.

So it's nearly 12 and normally by now I'd be heading bedwards, but I've fuck all on tomorrow, seeing as I wasn't even meant to be in Dublin this week. Don't come calling on me because I've no interest in the shindig, just lying low and getting some scribbles down. Unless you're talking 'just the one.'

ALWAYS an excuse. Always an out.

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