Monday, August 15, 2011

St Patrick's Cathedral

The middle of town and it's a wasteland for lunch spots. Clanbrassil Street.

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.

Tuesday, August 09, 2011

The 77

"They're turning a mountain into a molehill, Bernie, they're makin' far too big a deal out of it altogether..."

"Are you sure you don't mean..."

"Exactly, Bernie, that fuckin' bitch is exaggeratin' and making stuff up and she's not even her baby..."

"But mountains, Mary..."

"That's right Bernie. Social fuckin' services she's sayin'. Social services me granny! Those children were the best behaved children in Coolock..."

"The thing is..."

"I know, you're right."

"No, the thing is..."

"What is it Bernie?"

"You MAKE a mountain out of a molehill. You don't turn a mountain into a molehill!"

"Ah jaysus! Is that what I... Ah jaysus Bernie. I'm some eejit. But that's what they're doin'. They're turnin' a mountain... Which is it again?"

Thursday, August 04, 2011

Euro and Euros, both correct, but don't you just hate Euros as a plural?

Seven bottles of wine on the floor.

The Indian man in the Londis on Clanbrassil Street who always says 'how's it going' in a brassy Dublin accent.

Me, blank screen staring, for fifteen illicit minutes during Bank Holiday Monday. Not even hungover. Just not giving a fuck.

Talking to a 60-something woman with a lived-in face about The National and music in general.

Taking a different walk to work on differing days of the week.

Staring at the ceiling on a day off, and not bothering to care until much later on.

The red result of a forgotten pair of swimming trunks, and outside hot-tub sitting in Meath.

Realising it had been over a week since a blog, and not bothering to care until much later on.

The goat's cheese trial going well.

Telling the story of a 'dopp' and not really claiming it as my own.

Not being too sure if it should be goat's cheese, goats cheese or goats' cheese, and the loss of my perspicacity.