These overheard bus-stop conversations, these snatches of dialogue from women of an elderly age that I've never known in my life, they're becoming more and more... nuanced, let's say.
"Ah, how are ya Margaret?"
"I'm grand Mary. The back's at me again but, sure, same old, same old."
"Don't TALK to me, I'm havin' wicked problems with my..."
"Sorry to interrupt you, Mary, but did you hear about Paddy Curran?"
"What about him?"
"He only went and got himself got, so he did."
"Jesus! You're joking me. Who done it?"
"They don't know. He was found down by the railway tracks, near the Navan Road. Oh he had an awful death."
"What did they do to him?"
"Well, you know he had the bug? But he was doin' an awful lot better with it. He was keepin' away from the hoppers and the like. Rumour goes, though, that he was shavin' points off the package..."
"The divil, Margaret. Where was he gettin' his re-up?"
"Sure nobody knows, Mary. I reckon it was the lad he used to go around with, Jimmy Days, that got him back into it."
"That lad was always trouble Margaret. I mean, we all love a taste every now and again, but he was well into it. I never went near the Blue Tops, sure they came from Drimnagh. As long as I know it's good, clean product I'll indulge of a weddin' or a christenin', but jaysus you couldn't be messin' with the WMD and the like."
"Oh those Southside fuckers, Mary. They'd have it cut with all sorts of shite. Hot shots an' everything."
"Word, Margaret, word. C'mere to me, how's your Tommy?"
"Oh he's prone with the gout, Mary..."