Monday, April 25, 2005

The barman in Bowes is a character. We were the only ones there last night, Sunday, and we went outside for a smoke. On our return he was standing on the bar, jiving, asking us to join him for a dance. He proceeded to take down old 'curios' such as a bottle of talc from the 1920s or somesuch bygone era.

Sterile Dublin could do with a laugh or two, and Bowes - when it's quiet and he's on duty - has it in buckets.

I was at my neighbours fiftieth on the weekend, down in the local soccer club. Cocktail sausages and chips so hot they burn your lips. As the woman down the road said, Peter Kay was the DJ. Classic. Half way through the night they stopped everything to do 'Play your Cards Right', which involved oversized cards, a beer-gullet with a dodgy PA system and a dolled up sixty year old dolly bird with a constant smile. Topped only by the twenty year old diva who took her shoes off in order to shake her booty to the joy and rapture of all the seventy year old grandpas sitting agog at the edge of the dance floor.

You'd almost forget your cat died. Until everyone reminds you, teary eyed, or should I say beery eyed. My toe-biting beast was run over, probably by a skanger in a Seicecento driving at 60mph. Bring back hanging I say (I'd like to say I'm joking, but I won't).

Aw well, Arthur, you lived well, and if you're haunting me like one of the neighbours thought you might be, I can take a little furry shadow anyday - like I said, we all need to laugh more.

Sorry about your cat.
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