They crack me up, the scumbags outside my office. They've migrated down to the water from Townsend Street or Tara Street or wherever the jaysus, they now live on one of those marble benches that looks straight across at the IFSC.
Fascinating noises and gestures come out of them, a stone's throw from where Gráinne and Samantha discuss their weekend plans with the goys while out having a smoke break.
Fascinating noises altogether.
They don't converse, they bellow. They take on the form of three or four arguing, gnashing coat hangers with their screams and their tears and their cans of cheap piss.
I can never, of course, make out a single thing they're saying to each other (such is their volume) but I like to think of them getting all strung out and worked up about the best way to make tiramisu, the vagaries of the Croke Park agreement and the merits of the IMF bailout.
"SHURRRRUP JOSIEEEE!!! I'M TELLIN' YE! BROYAN LENIHAN WAS TO BLAME WHEN HE BLEEDIN' PUSHED FOR THA' BLEEEEEEDIN' BANK GUARANTEE!!"
"STOP IT MACKORRR!! IT WAS AN INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCE OF THE FOOKIN' LAVISH SPENDIN' A' THOSE WAAANKERS LONG BEFORE LENIHAN EVER TOOK OVER THE BLEEDIN' FINANCE PORTFOLIO!"
And so on.
Be sure of one thing, never get them started on whether to use sherry or brandy in the bespoke Italian dessert. Things will get volatile.