After weeks of sobering thought, no drink, millions of walking everywhere, irascible shopkeeps, flakes of snow, puddles of cold brown effluent, 7,815 episodes of The Sopranos, cellulitis and baked fish fillets I took myself pubwards this weekend.
Nothing to tell, really. Just another white shirt with the top button open, we are legion, suckling bottled beer to stave off utter destroyedness. Circumstances brought me to Shelbourne Park last night - a fine medium rare steak and a ten euro winner on the last race, dodging PETA barrackers on the way out, that kind of thing.
I'm on my holidays, taking off tomorrow in search of some words for myself because the ones I have are as creaky as the 1989 Ford Fiesta parked outside. There'll be nothing to see here for a few days but that isn't anything new, profligate at the best of times, me.