Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Sun smeared Dublin and the jackets came off. Forget your latté and cappa-chim chims, I was on the fresh apple juice (Juicy Bagel in the irish life mall - lousy coffee, good juice).

Back to work, but wearing new shoes. A bitter sweet symphony. Alanis Morrissette lilted out 'you' friend, best friend with benefits' through the brown beige 1970s shopping arcade. I sipped from my straw and smiled at the man in the bag shop. I was transported back to 1996, sitting in the back seat of a 1990 Micra, half drunk driving around Longford with a gang of friends, all of whom I've lost touch with, smiling at my then boyfriend. Aw, the memories.

A few hours of work and I was in O'Briens, grateful for the polish girl who always knows my coffee order. She was in great form, smiling, 'only one hour to closing', put me in a flash mood, treating the temp and the boss to coffee. Didn't realise it was half five, time to go home for most sane people, who thanked me profusely and swore blind they would drink it on the train home, whilst wondering if I had finally lost it.

Aw well, the sun still shone when I was on the 19. And when I got off the stinking bus and missed meeting my friend and had to walk a quarter of a mile back to remeet her, it still hovered brightly. And later still, when I ambled with Faraday around the estates, listening to the sweet tweet of the birds and the occasional joy-rider, there was no nip in the air. Five minutes ago, as I opened my front door to be assailed by the bright lights of two fire-engines and a fire-car that were apparently lost in the mists of Finglas, no conflagration in sight, there was still that delicious scent of summer.

Until tomorrow, when the rain will gutter down streams and we will dash for cover, I will smile my way to sleep, low-flying planes and yelling teenage drinkers won't touch me. For I am safe in the knowledge that someday soon, the scent of burning sausages will twin with purring lawn-mowers and I will have to squint to see, and carry a bag full of pullovers and rain-jackets, on my way to Croker to watch the Dubs agonisingly betray my undying fate in them.

My voice will crack, the beer will be flat, and I will croak out, 'Come on ye boys in blue, come on ye boys in blue, come on ye boys, come on ye boys in blue'. The ref will be a twat, the country will be out as always to get the city, and my emotions will veer between ecstatic joy and utter devestation. I will shell out on blue plaited wool, and learn all of their names off again. Senan will be the man, they should take their points and the goals will come, and I will struggle to get to the bar in Kennedy's or Fagan's or wherever. Aw yes, in the words of Grandaddy, 'summer's here kids'.

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