In two months I'd eaten soup among the Racing Post cognoscenti, a stale ciabatta on Kevin Street, something with beetroot on Aungier Street and far too many Subway inches served up by a man who told me I looked tired, angry and fierce with the world.
Fuck you, Londis.
I'd gone hungry also, shy to eat among new colleagues and have the smell of my soup waft all over their nice weekday afternoons, but there was a degree of success today on a sandwich run to a place with 'Bite' in its title.
The waitress dared me to eat all of the sandwiches, holding each up and telling me of the delights within. I was hungry and opted for something with salami and tomato that made the bread a bit soggy. No matter, it did the job, and I enjoyed her Dutch chatter with the 'sh's giving her away.
I'd wasted just 15 minutes of my break so walked around the park beside St. Patrick's Cathedral, settling on a bench in the piddlings of rain. I only remembered being there once, when I was in third class and obsessed with finding the grave of Robert Emmet.
When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.
I half recalled the words and wondered what led me to stop being so intrepid, what grabbed me about his story in the first place and how I equated a field trip - eating cold sausage rolls in my father's car - at nine-years-old with this park.
I thought on other snatches of things before the rain started falling that bit too hard and I wandered back to the main road, past the Spar, the black Londis at Fumbally Square, around the corner and to a computer that had me logged elsewhere.