Thank fuck for the internet. Thank fuck for it. The bus from Dingle dropped me in Tralee with an hour and a half's wait until the connection to Limerick.
I sat for ten minutes at the station but got royally fucked off when the hippy beside took out some hair jelly and an apple. Each individual munch saw the angry grow in me, every bite rising my bile, every beastly examination of his pomade pack eliciting groans and sighs from me, not even silent.
49 minutes to departure.
I'm a man of many pet peeves, one of them revolves around the humble úl. I like them a lot, don't get me wrong, but I find it hard to be around the eating of one by another.
I've been known to text the Mallow one.
"There's someone eating an apple in my vicinity."
"Run. Go home. Nobody to annoy you there."
Or words to that effect.
Anyway, I took my bag and baggage and hunted down this Internet Café. It puzzles me how coffee is rarely to be found in these places, just an empty Coke fridge, a seasick blue on the walls painted and Prince playing overhead.
43 minutes to departure.
So it's to a couple of days in Limerick, it'll be either 'Benjamin Button' or 'Revolutionary Road'. I've seen most else.
Then back to Dublin, to Charleville Road, where I'll try to make some sense of the Dingle scribblings. The whole page of them. I got distracted by the nothingness, what can I say? My stated aim went to the winds, replaced by the walking and the stew and Guinness. Together and separate.
I'll go back to Dublin and people will ask me if I went to see Funghi. I'll go back to Dublin and people who don't know me will ask me if I went to see Funghi.
38 minutes to departure.
'Woman' by John Lennon on the wireless now. I'm off.