She's 30 today, my sister, and I wonder how the hell that happened so bloody soon after we were sending her to the shop on the promise that, "we'll time you."
I wonder what her record time might have been had we not shrugged and told her that we forgot to start the timer as soon as she left the gate, then asked her for the change.
It makes me feel old, a bit, but it's seeded a headblog through town.
A headblog through town where I lie to the lady at the free biscuit stall, telling her I'll be back later to put money where my greedy guts are.
(I do that a lot, fibbing to total strangers, at least once a day if I can help it.)
I walk out to Grafton Street, looking down at my phone, waiting for the world to tell me what's happening. I don't look up to see for myself, and get tangled up in a leash with three dogs, taking my lesson before freeing myself.
I dare the man in the Concern vest to call me 'dude,' but I think he knows me, knows not to, and he stalks another as I pass Tower, Nourish, the place with the cakes and the International Bar. I meet this man but I don't stop. He's talking to someone else so I don't interrupt, just pass on my best and move on.
Coffee. George's Street. That place, Simon's Place. I sit outside despite the chill and spy on the hipsters, the Casual Fridays, the ladies just lunched and the visitors looking up, up, up at the tops of the gay bars opposite.
I spy in plain sight, then take out my phone. I make notes that mean nothing like 'woman imaginary friend' and 'ideas for pizza...' I judge people, and judge myself for judging people, and give myself a headache before the bus arrives.
I get on the 9 and see the man with three dogs, I see him seeing me so I go back to my phone and wonder why, oh why, am I hidden from my own news feed...
I have a word with myself.